


This Door Is Always Open

by zmalikd



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Love Triangles, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unrequited Love, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmalikd/pseuds/zmalikd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn’s always had Louis, and thought he always would. But, when high school starts and that all changes, he’s left with nothing but old memories and a damaged heart. (a growing up AU where Louis’ the boy next door, and Zayn’s hopelessly devoted)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for [jo](http://zaynsmitten.tumblr.com/)'s birthday who asked for a growing up zouis fic. I might have ran a little wild with it, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless. beautiful cover art found: [here](http://24.media.tumblr.com/713a42dc0842443beb8ed6acfe84cd2e/tumblr_mtjo11empP1swvqtpo1_500.png). by the amazing [falseidolls](http://falseidolls.tumblr.com/).

Zayn was seven years old when he first met Louis. His parents had just bought a house on Popler Street, only a block away from his new elementary school. He didn’t like the house very much. The walls were a cheerful blue that made his eyes hurt, and the front yard was too small; the back too big. There was only one tree on the entire premise, and it was a short, sad little thing with weak branches. The only good thing that came with the move was the promise of his own bedroom. No longer would he have to share with his snot-nosed little sister, and his mom even told him that he could hang whatever he wanted on the walls.

He was stacking his books on his shelves when he heard a gentle tap on his door. 

“Come in,” he called, already knowing who it was.

“Hey, champ,” said his dad, leaning against the door frame. “Looks good in here.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Sure, it does!” He smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes and made his face brighten up. Zayn could never be mad at his dad. “You know what will make it even better?” He picked up one of the many notebooks Zayn used to draw in. “If you hung a couple of these up on the walls. It would really pull the room together, don’t you think?”

“No.”

He sighed, heavily and long, sitting on the edge of Zayn’s bare mattress. The sheets and blankets were still packed away in the back of the moving van, waiting to be washed. Setting the notebook on the bed, Zayn’s dad took his hand and pulled him close. “You’re right,” he said, fixing Zayn’s shirt collar. “Not a good idea, huh? But you know what is? All of these—” he touched the notebook. “They’re old drawings from old places. Of old people, am I right?”

Zayn nodded. His dad was always right.

“What if you found something _here_ that you like? Something new. Would that be something you’d want to do?”

Shrugging, Zayn kept his eyes on the floorboards.

His dad continued, “Tomorrow, you should go out and find something you like. Then draw it and put it up,” he mirrored Zayn’s shrug, making him laugh. “It’ll make the room look great.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s my guy. Don’t let this place scare you, okay? It’s good to make changes every once in a while. Think of all the new places you’ll see, and the new adventures you can go on. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, his heart skipping a beat. The way his dad talked about the new neighborhood really did make it sound exciting. Maybe Zayn really could like it here.

“You’ll do good,” his father said, squeezing his shoulder. “I know you’ll be happy.”

The next morning, while his parents were moving the last of the boxes into the house, Zayn was out back, sitting under the small tree, watching ants crawl along the bark. When that proved to be too boring, he started kicking around the dirt, wondering to himself why there were patches of missing grass. Rock and dirt were what mostly lined his backyard, and it made it look bad. Stupid, even. 

“Who are you?” came a voice with a slight lisp.

Zayn looked towards the intrusion to find a boy, no older than himself, hanging over the side of his wooden fence. The boy was missing a tooth, right in the front of his mouth, and when he spoke, Zayn could see his tongue move.

“Hey,” he called again, pointing an accusing finger at Zayn. “I’m talking to _you_.”

Heat rose in Zayn’s cheeks, making his face burn. He narrowed his eyes and shouted, “It’s rude to point!”

“So, you _can_ talk.”

“Yeah! And so can you, but I’m not making a big deal out of it!”

“What’s your name?” he asked, as if Zayn had never said a thing.

“Zayn,” he spat out, annoyed and riled up.

“I’m Louis.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“My mom said that sometimes people don’t ask things because they’re too scared to.”

“I’m _not_ scared!”

Louis frowned deeply at that, bunching his shoulders up and letting them fall. Jumping down from the fence, he disappeared. Zayn waited, eyes fixed on where Louis had been, expecting him to pop back up. When he didn’t, Zayn only shrugged, certain that Louis wouldn’t have made a good friend anyway.

*

His first day at his new school was more nerve-wracking than any other day of his life. His teacher, an old woman by the name of Mrs. McIntyre— who wore glasses that magnified her eyes and made her gaze terrifying— had made him stand in front of the room and tell the other kids where he had moved from, and if he was enjoying North Carolina. Zayn answered all their questions with head nods and single words. Mrs. McIntyre tried her best to coax a more elaborate telling of what Nevada was like and why he had moved out, but all she got was a shoulder shrug and a quiet, “I don’t know.”

“Now, class,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s be very nice to Zayn today. A new school can be scary sometimes, and we don’t want him scared, do we?”

Zayn wished she hadn’t said _scary_ , because he didn’t look at it that way. At least, not until she spoke the words. Looking out towards the other students, he thought of how their eyes seemed empty and narrowed, staring at him as if he were an animal in a zoo. He wanted to go home, and he wanted to cry, but he knew he was a big kid now. Big kids don’t cry at school, only babies do.

“You don’t have to do the math work today,” Mrs. McIntyre said as she walked him to the only vacant desk in the entire classroom. “You can just listen for now.” Going back to the front of the room, she asked the other students to take out their worksheets, and began writing math problems on the board that Zayn had already learned how to do.

Once he had his fill of listening to other kids answer problems wrong, Zayn took out his notebook and turned to a picture he had started the night before. It was a comic version of The Flash, and staring down at it, he smiled to himself. He liked it very much.

“What are doing?” asked a girl—Sarah, by the name tag on her desk—when she caught sight of Zayn’s drawing. “What is that?”

The other kids, having heard what Sarah asked, began to clamor around Zayn’s desk, wanting to see what he was doing. He covered his drawing with both his arms, wanting to hide from them and their questions.

“What is it?” asked one boy.

“I think it’s Spiderman,” said another.

“No,” Sarah said dignified. “Spiderman doesn’t look like _that_ ,” and to Zayn’s complete horror, they all started to laugh and giggle. He didn’t know what they found so funny about his drawing, but he was certain they were laughing at him, and the tears came back, forceful this time.

“That’s enough, children,” Mrs. McIntyre said as she walked down the aisles, putting kids back into their desks. She looked to Zayn with her too big eyes, a warning glance that told him that she didn’t want him drawing in class anymore. He was thankful she didn’t say it out loud, but it hurt his spirits nonetheless.

He put the notebook back in his backpack, too scared to draw anymore.

During lunch, he was careful not to show off his lunchbox. It was one that his mom got him for his birthday the year before, and it had the Green Lantern on the front. He didn’t want anyone to ask him about _that_ , too. He sat in the far end of the cafeteria, away from all the kids, though they still stared at him with curious gazes and whispered amongst themselves, asking such things as, _Who’s that?_ and, _Where did he come from_? They made his skin itch and his heart pound faster.

His lunch consisted of a crustless ham and cheese sandwich with a bag of chips and a fruit cup, all prepared by his mother. It made him miss her and home, made him miss Nevada and his old house with the white walls and the two floors. He didn’t cry then, just as he hadn’t in class, although he would have much liked to. Instead, he pulled back out his notebook and, ignoring his Flash drawing, turned to a page with a nearly finished Batman on it. It was his favorite drawing yet, and he knew if he started right then and there, he’d have it all done by the end of the hour.

“What are you drawing?”

Zayn started, arms splayed out protectively over his work. He looked over his shoulder and found Louis taking the spot next to him on the bench. Scared and confused, Zayn wondered where Louis had come from. Did he go to the same school? Was he following Zayn?

“Can I see?” asked Louis, pointing to the paper that Zayn was guarding with his life.

“Why? So you can laugh at it?”

Louis’ brow creased, his mouth pinched tight into a frown. “Why would I do that?”

“Everyone else did.”

“Oh,” he rubbed at his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I won’t laugh, I promise.”

Zayn stared at him for a long while, waiting for Louis to ask him what his problem was, or to make a comment on how people shouldn’t stare at others, but neither happened. He just sat there, spirits high and a dorky grin on his face.

“Fine.” Zayn uncovered his paper, sliding it in front of Louis. He wasn’t ready for the loud gasp and for Louis to shout,

“That’s so cool!”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah! It looks just like him.” He ran a finger over the lines of the drawing, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Zayn couldn’t help but smile, his heart racing. Someone actually thought his art was _cool_. “You could draw your own Batman comics,” Louis said, loudly and proud.

“No. I’m not that good yet.”

“It looks like you are. This is the best thing I’ve ever seen!”

Zayn snatched the paper back, hating the way his face felt so hot. “It’s just a drawing.” He watched as Louis took a straw and put it in his milk carton, taking a long drink from it.

“Do you have friends?” he asked, his mouth still around the straw.

“Why?”

“Nobody sits over here except for the teachers. Do you need somewhere to sit?”

“No. I like it here.”

“Then, can I sit with you?”

Zayn looked between Louis’ overeager face and his lunch tray, already half eaten. “Okay,” he whispered. He wanted to tell Louis _no_ , but he liked Zayn’s drawing; he couldn’t be mean now. Besides, Louis seemed nice, unlike the other kids in his class.

“How old are you?” Louis asked, putting his drink down. He was crowded into Zayn’s space, arm constantly brushing against Zayn’s.

“Seven.”

“I’m eight.”

Zayn nodded to let Louis know that he had heard him, but that he also didn’t want to talk anymore. He ate his sandwich, one small bite at a time, chewing slowly, hoping that the lunch hour would go by quickly.

“Are you gonna live in that house for long?”

With his sandwich halfway to his mouth, Zayn nodded. “Yeah.”

“The last people who lived there didn’t stay very long. They were nice, though. And they had a dog. His name was Bruce.” Louis paused to eat an apple slice, his face scrunched up in thought. “Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I have a cat. He isn’t as cool as a dog.”

Zayn chewed slowly, not understanding the significance of their conversation. He mumbled, “You talk too much.”

At first, Louis acted as if Zayn had said nothing, taking another drink of his milk. He waited a long time before whispering, “That’s what my mom says. That’s okay, though, isn’t it?”

“You answer questions nobody asks. That’s not okay.”

“But you won’t ask them.” Louis began playing with the cuffs of his sleeves. “And I wanna tell you stuff.”

Zayn’s heart did a funny thing, then, a thing that only happened when Louis was around. It fluttered in his chest and made his stomach twist into knots. He felt guilty for making Louis look sad, and for saying something mean. When Louis looked to him, his eyes radiating color, there was a hint of apology in them that Zayn liked even less than the sadness. He wondered absently where Louis’ friends were.

They continued their lunch in silence, Louis eating his macaroni and playing with a cup of jello he got from the lunch line, whilst Zayn stared idly down at his own food, no longer hungry. It wasn’t until Louis began throwing his trash onto his tray that Zayn felt the first real waves of panic. What if Louis left? Then who was he supposed to sit with?

“D’you wanna see my drawings?” he asked, lightly laying a hand on Louis’ elbow.

Louis’ face brightened up, his eyes going comically wide. “You have more?”

“Yeah. But don’t laugh at them.”

Louis made a motion of crossing his heart, and right at that moment, Zayn felt like things would be okay for him. 

Louis proved to be a good friend that week, always showing up when Zayn happened to need him most. He didn’t like any of the other boys because they never liked to talk about the new movies, or the recent comics. They liked westerns and playing cowboys with fake guns. Zayn hated guns. He thought they were for cheaters who didn’t know how to fight. The girls were even worse than the boys, making kissy faces at Zayn and pestering him to play house with them. He gave in one day and quickly regretted it. He had to eat sand and pretend to drink out of an invisible cup, and if he drank too slowly, he’d get yelled at. It was terrible.

Two weeks after their first lunch together, Louis was in Zayn’s backyard, wearing an Iron Man shirt. It was the third time he’d worn it that week.

“Batman would totally kick Superman’s butt any day,” Zayn was saying. He had a stick in his hand that he found under the tree, and he waved it wildly to emphasize what he said.

“No way! Superman would annihilate Batman.”

“What does annihilate mean?”

Louis stopped. “I don’t know. But Superman would do it.”

Zayn scoffed, rolled his eyes. He threw the stick down and kicked at the dirt. The grass had started to grow in and it didn’t look as stupid anymore. “Superman is just a guy in a cape.”

“And Batman is just a guy in a suit! Superman was _born_ that way. He’d kick anyone’s butt.”

“Capes are dumb.”

“You think everything’s dumb.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Zayn shouted, “I think _you’re_ dumb!”

“You’re mean,” Louis whispered.

Zayn’s heart sank in his chest, but he refused to apologize. Sitting down with a huff, he started to pull the grass out of the ground, creating a small pile by his feet. When Louis sat down next to him, Zayn wasn’t the least bit surprised. It made his heart stop beating so quickly.

“Wanna look at comic books?” he asked, hoping Louis wouldn’t go home.

“Sure.”

Zayn’s room was a mess, clothes littered the floor and his bed, but Louis didn’t mention it—unlike Zayn’s mom who always told him to put his clothes in the laundry basket. Louis collapsed down on Zayn’s bed, kicking off his sneakers as he lay on the covers.

“I like your room,” he said. “What comics do you have?”

“The old Thor comics, mostly.”

“Thor’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah.”

Louis paused, staring up at the ceiling. “Thor would kick Batman’s butt,” he whispered.

Trying not to laugh, and failing horribly, Zayn took his comics off his shelf. He kicked his clothes out of the way, making a small clean spot on the floor where he laid his books out. His chest swelled with pride when Louis rolled off the bed and onto the floor to stare more closely at them.

“They’re nice, huh?” Zayn asked, wanting to hear Louis say it.

Louis merely nodded. “They’re even in their plastic wrappings,” he said, awe in his voice. He began running a finger across the covers. “They’re like brand new!”

“Do you like them?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “Can I take one out?”

“Sure. But don’t bend the pages.”

Louis picked up a book at random, carefully tipping the bag upside down and letting the comic slide out. Zayn watched him with keen eyes as Louis turned the book over and over in his hands, whispering, “ _Wow_ ,” under his breath. Convinced that Louis wouldn’t harm them, Zayn sat down at his desk—the one his father made him before they moved—and took out his heavy sketchbook. He only used his good paper for his most important drawings, and the one he thought up now seemed fit for the good paper.

He hummed tuneless sounds to himself as he took out his pencils, and he didn’t bother Louis, as Louis didn’t bother him. It was a comfortable silence that Zayn never knew before, and he liked it too much to break.

A knock came on his bedroom door an hour later, and it was his dad saying that Louis’ mom was looking for him.

“I gotta go,” Louis said, standing over Zayn’s shoulder. “Woah, what’s that?” he pointed at the drawing, knocking Zayn’s hand out of the way.

“It’s you,” he replied, sheepishly. “Can’t you tell? There’s a big L on the shirt.”

“L for Louis?”

“Yeah.”

They both looked at the drawing, Zayn admiring his work, Louis not saying anything for a long time. The drawing was of a boy in a superhero outfit, with shaggy hair covering his forehead just like Louis’, and he had a comic book in his hand.

“You should put a cape on me,” Louis said, smiling. “But I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do you want it?” asked Zayn, holding up the paper.

“No, you keep it. You drew it,” and then he left, scampering out of the room and to the front door.

Watching from his window, Zayn’s eyes followed Louis as he ran down the sidewalk, disappearing behind their wooden fence. He felt lonely almost instantly, no longer having someone to talk to. He didn’t want to have to wait a whole day to see Louis again.

He stared down at his drawing, mumbling to himself, “Capes are dumb.”

With a roll of his eyes, he picked his pencil back up and drew a cape blowing out behind Louis. He hung it on his wall that night, and pretended not to notice when his dad tucked him in and tapped his finger against the picture.

“This is a good one,” he said, giving Zayn a knowing smile. “It’s good you’re making friends, buddy.”

Zayn only shrugged, hiding deeper under his blankets, and trying not to smile.

The weeks faded into months, the seasons changing. Zayn found that their tree looked nice with red and orange leaves, but when winter hit and the branches were left bare, they cast scary shadows over his window at night, creating horrible pictures on his walls. He stayed up most of the time, terrified of the shadows, and even more scared of the snowstorms. He often wondered if Louis was scared, too.

“My parents are making me go to my grandma’s house for Christmas again,” Louis said one night. They were in Zayn’s room, lying on the floor with his old action figures set up. Louis wasn’t paying attention to the game. “I don’t wanna go.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She smells funny and her cooking always tastes bad.”

“You don’t have to eat it.”

“She gets mad when I don’t. But it’s just so _gross_.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“No. That’d be rude.”

Zayn leaned forward to set up a new scene for his toys. He was just about to create a barrier between his men and Louis’, ready to make them fight to the death, when Louis asked,

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Staying here, I guess. All my family’s back in Nevada, so it’s just us.”

“I bet that’s a lot of fun. It must be quiet here. You like quiet.”

“I guess so.”

“If you ever saw my family during Christmas—” he shook his head. “You would want to hide.”

“Are they scary?”

“No, but they’re loud. And they talk so much.”

“So do you.”

He gave Zayn a look that told him he was wrong. His eyes were dull, mouth pulled into a tight frown. “Maybe you think so, but they talk even more than me!”

Zayn shuddered at the thought, trying to imagine what a house full of Louis’ would be like. It was almost funny. He’d met Louis’ mom before, and she seemed nice to him, always giving him cookies when he’d come over after school, and telling him that his haircut looked good—even though it never did. He couldn’t picture her being loud like Louis, but maybe she was when Zayn wasn’t around.

“Do you have to go to your grandma’s?” Zayn asked, wishing Louis could spend Christmas with him. He already knew it was going to be a boring day now that he knew that Santa wasn’t real. What’s the point? He thought about asking if Louis still believed in Santa, but decided against it; if he did, Zayn didn’t want to ruin his imagination.

Louis’ reply was dull, monotone. “We go every year.” He took one of Zayn’s pillows from his bed and buried his face in it.

“Do you think you can come over before you leave?”

“We go really early.”

“But can you? Just for a minute.”

He nodded, eyes narrowed. “What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Zayn woke extra early on Christmas morning. Sneaking down on tiptoes and being careful as not to wake anyone else, he began making the only lunch he really knew how to. He took the peanut butter jar out of the cupboard, the jelly out of the fridge, and smeared them on two pieces of bread that he removed the crusts from and cut into two triangles. He waited, impatient and tired, in the living room, staring out the window pointed at his driveway. He saw Louis approach and opened the door before he could knock. Everyone else was _still_ asleep.

It was snowing heavily that winter, and the top of Louis’ head looked white from the ice crystals that clung to his hair. When Zayn handed him the sandwich wrapped in cellophane and said, “Here,” Louis only stood on his front porch, examining it.

“Don’t let your grandma see it,” Zayn warned. “Or she might take it away.”

Louis moved then, as if snapped out of trance. He stuffed the sandwich in his pocket, making his side bulge out. “Thanks a lot,” he said, voice muffled by his scarf. He did something then, something that Zayn wasn’t prepared for: he thew his arms around Zayn’s middle, hugging him tightly. It was the first hug Zayn ever received from someone that wasn’t family, and it felt nice and warm; different from the way his mom hugged him. And because of all the layers Louis was wearing, it reminded him of holding a pillow.

“Merry Christmas, Zayn,” Louis said, releasing him. He ran down the driveway and back home where his parents were piling things into their minivan.

Zayn called back, “Merry Christmas, Lou!” unable to keep himself from smiling.

It became a sort of Christmas ritual after that. Zayn woke early every Christmas morning to make Louis a sandwich, and he did it for three years, until Louis told him that he didn’t like PB&J anymore, and that it would be okay if he ate his grandma’s cooking every once in a while. Zayn felt as if Louis had told him that he hated Zayn’s sandwiches and that he never wanted to eat another one again. He didn’t like taking Louis’ words to heart (his mother had said he was a sensitive boy, something he hated even more), but it was hard. Louis’ word had always meant more than anyone else’s, and if he didn’t want sandwiches anymore, then Zayn wouldn’t make them.

The year he stopped making them is the year Zayn’s dad allowed him to start doing chores around the house to earn money. He saved up all of his allowances for the entire year, keeping it all a secret from Louis. He wanted to be able to surprise him when the time came, and it was when he was shopping for new Christmas decorations with his mom that Zayn found exactly what Louis needed.

Hanging on a lonely rack was a black Iron Man shirt that was much nicer than the first one Louis had. The red of Iron Man’s suit was bright on the dark background, his canon drawn. Louis had stopped wearing his old Iron Man shirt when the stitching in the armpit developed a hole, and even though Zayn always poked his finger through it to tickle Louis when he was asleep, he didn’t think that Louis stopped wearing it because of him. It had just gotten old and too small in the shoulders.

“Can I get it?” he asked his mom, touching the sleeve. It felt soft.

“How much is it?”

He checked the price tag. “Fifteen.”

“And how much do you have?”

Counting in his head, Zayn answered, “Fifty.”

His mother froze, her attention having been set on the things in her cart. She turned to him with a strange look on her face, and asked, “Where did you get fifty dollars?”

“I saved it.”

Her face did something even _stranger_ than before, and Zayn didn’t like it. He couldn’t tell if she was happy with him, or if she had to pee. It was all very weird.

“Oh, honey,” she exclaimed, touching his shoulder. “It’s good that you’re saving. _Very_ good. Go ahead and get it, but get something for yourself, too.”

There wasn’t anything he really wanted, so he bought a chocolate bar for the sake of buying something and saved it for later so that he and Louis could share it.

His mom was always the one who did the wrapping, but she let him do it for Louis’ gift, and even though it looked more like Zayn had wrapped it in tape rather than actual paper, he thought it looked nice. And it was even better when Louis ripped it open on his doorstep, Christmas morning, before going to his grandma’s. When Louis saw what was inside of the paper, he gasped so loudly that Zayn’s heart did that funny thing again, where it skipped a beat as if it wanted out of his chest.

“This is _great_!” he yelled, clinging to Zayn.

He had gotten used to the hugs, Louis always seemed to find an excuse to hug, but never had Louis squeezed so hard, knocking all the air out of Zayn’s lungs.

“I got you something, too,” he said, releasing him.

“You did?”

“Well, I _made_ it. It’s not an Iron Man shirt, but I think you’ll like it.” He took a small box out of his coat pocket and handed it over, his cheeks and nose turning a bright red from the cold air. “Open it.”

Zayn knew he wasn’t supposed to open presents before the rest of his family woke up, but he shrugged, sure that no one would ever find out. He said, “Alright,” as he tore open the box, shuffling through the small pieces of packing paper that Louis had stuffed in there. He stared as he found what was inside. Taking it out, he held it up and stared harder. It was a bracelet made of colorful beads on a stretchy string. Louis took it before he could try to put it on and demanded,

“Hold out your arm.”

Zayn did and watched transfixed on Louis’ fingers as he tied the bracelet around his wrist in a neat little knot.

“My sister was making these a couple days ago. She kept bothering me to make some with her, so I thought I’d make one for you. Look,” he turned the beads over to show two larger ones with their initials on them. “L for Louis, and Z for Zayn. It’s a friendship bracelet.”

With his breath caught in his throat, Zayn stared into Louis’ face and saw the sincerity of his words in his eyes. “Like, best friends?”

Louis nodded. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Zayn touched their initial beads, feeling the small grooves in the plastic where the letters were. “It’s perfect.”

“Good! I’m gonna go put this on before we leave,” he waves the shirt around excitedly. “Thanks again, Zayn.” He hugged him again, but this time he did something that made everything else he’d ever done seem normal: Louis kissed his cheek and muttered, “Merry Christmas.” He ran down the drive then, dropping pieces of the wrapping paper behind him by accident, and disappeared for the day.

Zayn forgot to say thank you for the bracelet, and forgot to wish Louis a Merry Christmas. He rubbed at the spot where Louis’ mouth had touched his skin. When he thought about what had happened, he didn’t feel disgusted or grossed out by it. It made him happy, made his body tingle and his lips smile. It felt strange to him, being kissed. The girls at school had always tried to kiss him before and he felt then that he could never get away fast enough. It was even worse when his mom kissed him. She always left spit on his cheek. Thoughts of _that_ grossed him out, but thoughts of Louis did the exact opposite.

He didn’t want to bring up the kissing, didn’t want to talk about it, except for with Louis. He tried his best to ignore it and to not mention a single thing. He lasted a month before the question began to eat him alive, but all Louis told him was a simple,

“You kiss people you love. Right?”

It sounded right, so Zayn nodded. His dad kissed his mom, and his mom kissed him, and he was positive they all loved each other.

“But isn’t it weird?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Two boys kissing? They don’t show that in the movies.”

“I think it’s as weird as a boy kissing a girl. And we’re not doing it on the mouth, so it’s different.”

“What are mouth kisses for?”

Louis thought a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. It would always irritate Zayn when Louis did that, because there would be teeth marks left in his skin, and it made his mouth look swollen, like someone had punched him in it.

“That’s a different kind of love, I think,” he said finally. “Parents do it and so do people who are dating. We’re not either of those, so…”

“No mouth kisses?”

“Right. No mouth kisses.”

Zayn accepted the answers given, and he liked to know that he meant enough to Louis for him to always kiss Zayn goodbye or goodnight when he stayed over on the weekends. Zayn wanted to kiss Louis, too, because he loved Louis just as much as Louis loved him, but it never seemed like the right time. Whenever he tried to move his mouth towards Louis’ cheek, Louis would be moving _his_ mouth to Zayn’s, and he didn’t want to further his confusion by accidentally giving one of the _other kinds_ of kisses. He settled for letting Louis do the kissing, and he did the hugging and told Louis every night that he’d see him in the morning.

*

The year of sixth grade (seventh for Louis) was the year Zayn found out what a true bully was. No one ever talked to him, except to ask if he knew _how_ to talk, but Louis was always coming home with dirt on his pants and scrapes on his hands that he told Zayn were no big deal, even when the really bad ones were still bleeding.

It was Zayn’s first year of middle school, and his dad made a promise with him that he’d pick him up every day as long as he’d take the bus in the mornings. Zayn obliged to the idea, but soon realized that it was the worst one his dad had ever had.

He stayed late after school every day to get extra help on his math homework—not that he ever needed it (Louis liked calling him a _genius_ those days. He said Zayn was too smart for his own good). Zayn had just thought that it couldn’t hurt anyone to be better prepared for the rest of his middle school years. Though it seemed, after some time, that it _could_ hurt someone, and that someone had been Louis.

He was home from school one evening, taking a soda out of the fridge when he noticed through the patio window that Louis was sitting in the backyard, under their small tree. He had been picking at the dirt, his head ducked down.

“What are you doing out here?” Zayn asked, stepping outside.

“They’re mean.”

“Who’s mean?”

Louis didn’t respond, and it made Zayn’s fingers twitch. He walked slowly and carefully, as if Louis was a kind of wild animal that would scurry away at any given moment. He sat with as much care as he walked and crossed his legs Indian style, his knee brushing against Louis’ calf.

“What happened?” he whispered.

Louis sniffed hard, sighed even harder and raised his head so that Zayn could see his face. At first, Zayn didn’t know what to think. There was a cut on Louis’ top lip and the right side of his mouth was already bigger than the left, swollen and red. Once it all sank in, Zayn clenched his hands into fists, and it was almost as if everything turned white. The sun was too bright, his head pounded with rushing blood. He was livid.

“Who did that to you?”

“Kyle Taysom.”

“What, the kid with the red hair and the freckles?”

Louis nodded, sniffing again.

“Did you hit him back?”

“ _No_.”

“Why not?” Zayn asked, though he already knew why. Louis didn’t like being mean to people, even when they were mean to him. “Did you call him names at least?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Zayn gritted his teeth, trying to swallow back his anger. “You should have tripped him, then stepped on his fingers and ground them into the sidewalk.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about right now, Zayn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What am I gonna tell my mom?” Louis looked to him with pleading eyes, the cut more prominent when he frowned. “She always told me that if I had problems, to go to her and she’d take care of them. What is she supposed to do about this? What if she finds out I’m being bullied and-and—” he took a deep breath. “What if she moves me to another school?” His eyes started to turn red with threatening tears. Zayn wished he could wipe them all away. He wished he could hurt who had hurt Louis.

“Tell her I did it.”

“Are you _crazy_? She’d hate you.”

“Say it was an accident. Tell her we have P.E. together and I threw the football too hard, or something. She’ll probably give me a lecture about rough housing,” he cringed, already having heard that lecture countless times before. “It’s better than her finding out the truth.”

“That could work.”

“It _will_ work.”

“That doesn’t make Kyle go away.”

“I’ll ride the bus with you from now on.”

Louis started to shake his head fiercely. “No! You have your math meetings.”

“Who cares? I already know all the stuff they’re teaching anyway,” Zayn waved Louis off, smiling dully. “Kyle Taysom won’t try anything stupid as long as I’m with you.”

“No offense, Zayn, but you’re a puny sixth grader. Kyle’s an eighth grader. Why would he be afraid of you?”

“I don’t want him to be _afraid_ of me. I just want him to leave you alone. Besides, he’s not even that big.” Zayn stood, brushed off the seat of his pants. He held out a hand for Louis to take. “And I’m _not_ puny.”

Louis laughed as he climbed to his feet, fingers digging into the back of Zayn’s hand. “Have you _seen_ your chicken legs? They’re so small!”

“We can’t all have nice legs, Lou.”

“You like my legs?”

With a roll of his eyes, Zayn pulled Louis by the hand and went back inside where his dad was watching the end of a Packers game, his feet rested on the coffee table, beer in hand. He grabbed another soda, one for Louis, and with their hands still linked, led them into his room.

*

Kyle Taysom was a big kid for his age, only thirteen but with the body of a sixteen year old, and a mindset of a frog—or at least Zayn liked to think. Sure, Kyle was big, but Zayn was smart and he was not going to let anything happen to Louis again.

The first few weeks that Zayn took the bus, there weren’t any issues. Kyle kept mostly to himself, only glaring at Louis when he was looking for a seat. There weren’t any more wadded up paper balls thrown at the back of his head, and he didn’t get tripped when he was getting off at his stop. Zayn liked to believe that it was because he was there with him, holding Louis’ hand when they were seated, being careful not to let anyone see. But he knew that it was more likely that Kyle had just gotten bored with ruining Louis’ life rather than found something to fear in Zayn. It didn’t matter, though, because Louis didn’t come home crying anymore, and he didn’t have any new cuts or scrapes on his hands. But the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, that peace was broken.

They were stepping off the bus with their jackets zipped and buttoned, hands still tightly together. Not many kids used their stop, so they never hid their hands on the way home, happy to be able to do what they wanted. Louis was just about to say something, Zayn was certain because his face was all scrunched up in thought, the way he always looked before he said something important, when a loud, obnoxious voice called out,

“It’s gay to hold hands!”

Louis stumbled, fear etched all over his face. He turned to Zayn, mouthing _let’s go_. Zayn didn’t want to go. He didn’t like Kyle’s tone, and he didn’t like that Kyle was standing only a few feet behind them with two of his stupid looking friends. They all sneered like animals, their oversized jeans hanging low. Kyle’s backpack was in one of his friends’ arms, his jacket gone—Zayn couldn’t see where he left it.

“No one asked you!” Zayn spat out, gripping Louis’ hand harder. “You shouldn’t talk when nobody is talking to _you_.”

Looking angry with high color in his cheeks, Kyle asked, “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

Louis tugged at Zayn’s arm. “Come on. I wanna go home.”

Zayn didn’t like turning his back on people, especially the ones that had issues with him, but the look in Louis’ eyes told him that if he didn’t listen, there would be a price to pay later, and Zayn hated even more when Louis was upset with him. So he gave Kyle one last look before following Louis towards their street, gritting his teeth when he heard all three of them shuffling after.

“Louis,” Zayn began. He wanted to tell him that he _had_ to stand up to Kyle, or else nothing would change. As much as he wished he could, it wasn’t like Zayn could be with Louis all the time to keep him out of Kyle’s clutches. If it wasn’t now, then it’d be another time, and he knew it. Something told Zayn that Louis knew it, too. “We have to—” Louis’ hand was ripped away from his, nails scraping along his skin. It burned, but he hardly noticed. All he saw was Louis flat on his back, one arm pinned under Kyle’s shoe.

“Didn’t your dad teach you not to be a gay boy?” Kyle jeered, his friends laughing along.

Zayn doesn’t remember much about it now, but he knows in one instant he was watching Louis’ face twist in pain, and within another, he was plowing Kyle down, pinning him to the sidewalk. With a knee on either side of Kyle’s hips to hold him in place, Zayn hit him and he hit him hard. He could faintly hear Louis yelling his name as he pounded his fists into Kyle’s face. He didn’t know much about hitting—had only seen it done in movies, so he was sure that his punches didn’t hurt as much as he wanted them to—but it was enough to make Kyle’s nose bleed. He kicked his legs, trying to shove Zayn off of him, and his friend weren’t doing anything about it because they were all scared. Zayn knew it and it felt good to have them fear him.

“ _Get off_!” Kyle screeched, getting one good shove at Zayn’s chest.

Zayn toppled off of him and onto the sidewalk, where he cringed, clenching his jaw, sure that he was about to feel a heavy pair of knuckles on his face. He felt nothing, of course, for Kyle and his friends had already been running off. He heard Kyle yell, “You’re a freaking psycho!” and it made him smile.

Still on the sidewalk, Zayn stared up at the sky, his hands aching.

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, sitting down next to him.

“Are _you_?’

He nodded.

“How’s your arm?”

Louis shook it around. “Fine. You have blood on your hands.”

Zayn stared down at his fingers, finding red splattered across his palms. “I think it’s from his nose.”

“That’s gross.”

“Yeah.”

“Can we go home?”  
  
Zayn got to his feet and offered his hand. Louis only looked at it with distaste, eyeing the little red speckles along his skin. Offering his arm instead, Zayn smiled to himself when Louis linked their elbows together, and they walked slowly, trying to understand what all just happened.

Kyle ended up telling his mom—something Zayn would always think about later, anger rising in his chest—who then told the school principal on Monday. Zayn got sent home early for two days whilst Louis got stuck with detention. Neither of them told the principal what had really happened.

His dad was the one that picked him up, and he was grateful that it hadn’t been his mom. She always got this crazy look in her eye when she yelled, and even though Zayn’s not a baby anymore, it still scared the hell out of him. His dad was silent all the while home, the radio turned down to a mere whisper. It was terrifying to sit through, and Zayn had thought about jumping out of the window more than once.

“Why did you do it?” his dad asked once they were home, parked safely in the garage.

“He started it.”

“You could have broken his nose.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t.”

“ _Zayn_!”

He flinched. “I’m sorry, okay? He _started it_!”

“Did he hit you?”

“No.”

“Did he hit Louis?’

Zayn’s eyes began to fill with angry tears as his pulse picked up. “Yes.”

“What?” His dad asked, crowding him. Shock was written all over him. “He did?”

“Yeah, but don’t go and tell his parents. He told me not to tell anyone, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Because! His mom might move him to another school and that can’t happen.”

“Zayn, this is a big deal. What if Kyle does something else?”

“He’s not gonna do anything,” he mumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. He pressed his forehead to the window, glaring out into the garage. “People like Kyle are just scared. They want to be cool so they pick on people who don’t have a lot of friends.”

“How do you know that?’

He bunched up his shoulders. “I just do.”

“Oh, do you know everything?”

“I know how jerks are.”

His dad sighed loudly, rubbing at his face. He placed a hand on Zayn’s knee and promised, “I won’t tell anyone as long as you tell _me_ the next time you have trouble. You’ve been suspended for two days, Zayn. That’s not good. You know your mother isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“Can you just _not_ tell her?”

He laughed loud, squeezing Zayn’s knee. “If you ever keep anything from your mother, she’ll have your head for it. Never _not_ tell her things.”

Zayn huffed, whispered, “Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll make sure she goes easy on you.”

Easy was an overstatement. When his mom got home, she was already yelling, throwing dirty dishes into the sink, her voice echoing through the house. She called his name, demanding him to come out of his room, and when he did, he had half the thought to run to Louis’ house and hide forever. His dad was standing by her side, looking guilty as all hell.

Grounded for a week, Zayn tried not to go crazy. He couldn’t watch TV, he couldn’t use the internet, he couldn’t see Louis. He was to go to school and come straight home. His mom had even started calling at the same time every day to make sure he was there. It was all very tedious, and extremely annoying. Louis didn’t get into half as much trouble, only lectured—but Zayn knew all about those lectures and how horrible they could get. Louis’ mom loved to sit you down at the kitchen table and unleash, telling you all the things that bothered her, and she’d do it for hours, too.

Maybe Zayn _had_ gotten off easy.

Life was boring without Louis, plain and simple. Zayn didn’t know what to do with his time. He drew numerous cartoons of Louis doing various things. There was one of him and Louis holding hands—he kept that one under his bed, and one with Kyle Taysom lying on the ground with X’s in his eyes, and Louis standing over him, mid-victory scream. That was Zayn’s favorite.

Wednesday night, before he was to be back in school, Zayn was crawling into bed. All of his lights were turned out, the room soundless. Cuddled up with a pillow, he stared up at the ceiling, wondering what school was going to be like now that people knew what had happened. He imagined it would be very unpleasant. He was in the middle of making faces, trying to decide what he was going to tell people when there came a tap on his window. His heart almost stopped as cold sweat covered his body. Not many things scared him anymore, but someone tapping on his window in the middle of the night when there was only one working street lamp on their corner was enough to make anyone crawl into a closet.

He was holding his breath, blood pumping loudly in his ears. He thought if he didn’t move, the tapping would stop, but it didn’t, and Zayn yelped, short and high-pitched.

“Shut up, dummy,” came a soft whisper.

Zayn exhaled, feeling like a balloon that had lost all its air, his shoulders relaxing, his arms seeming to hang just a little bit lower. His legs shook as he walked on them, tiptoeing to the window. “Louis?”

“Who else would it be? The boogeyman?” Louis laughed, tapping again. “Let me in.”

Unlatching the window, Zayn slid the glass open, pulling up the blinds to give more room. Louis threw one leg in, clipping Zayn’s thigh, then the other, and he stumbled as he hopped off the window pane, grabbing at the wall.

“You should keep this unlocked,” he said. “You know how long I was out there?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Oh, I think you did,” he poked at Zayn’s chest, grinning from ear to ear. “How’s being grounded going?” he sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his tennis shoes. He wasn’t wearing socks with them, and it wasn’t until he brought his legs up, crossing them on the bed, that Zayn realized that Louis was wearing his pajamas, which were really only a pair of basketball shorts and the Iron Man shirt Zayn had got him two years before.

“Boring,” Zayn said, sitting down beside Louis.

“Yeah, I’ve been bored, too.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he snapped. “You’re not the one grounded.”

“No. But I still can’t see you.”

“Maybe you need new friends.” He didn’t know why he was in a bad mood, but he did know that he still hated that apologetic look that Louis got in his eye whenever Zayn showed any sign of being upset. Beating Louis to it, he whispered out a gentle, “Sorry,” as he covered Louis’ hand with his own.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“What about your mom and dad?’

“Mom’s visiting my aunt. She has the flu, I think. And you know how my dad is when my mom’s not home.”

“Passed out on the couch?”

Louis snorted a laugh. “Yeah. With enough empty coke cans to build a house out of.”

“What about school?”

“My dad wakes me up at seven every morning. Just set your alarm for six thirty and I’ll leave before anyone even notices.”

Zayn said, “Okay,” because it sounded fool proof to him, and besides, he didn’t really care; he was just happy to have time with Louis again.

They spent most of the night telling lame jokes and laughing at nothing. Louis explained, in detail, what Kyle’s face looked like at school that morning. Zayn laughed hard enough into his pillow to bring tears to his eyes, too proud to care about morals. And when Louis fell asleep first, curled in on himself, facing Zayn, Zayn didn’t really know what else to do other than wrap his arms around him. Their legs tangled together as he pressed his chin to Louis’ forehead, eyes closed.

Every night after that was the same. Louis would sneak into Zayn’s room and leave the next morning. It was only on weekends that he didn’t have to sneak around, his mom let him stay however long he wanted to, and each night they would fall asleep, entwined in a perfect circle, hands clasped tightly together.

*

The summer before seventh grade was the best summer Zayn can remember. His dad would let him stay out later than usual, and he didn’t even have to go home to check in anymore. He and Louis could run around doing just about anything they wanted without a care in the world. They bought BB guns and shot each other by accident and pretended not to cry whenever blood got drawn, or when their knees got cut too deeply. Louis’ mom even bought him a skateboard that he fell off of more times than Zayn could bother to remember. There was an equal amount of scares as good times, though. Like the time when Louis had fallen too hard and cut himself above his eye deep enough to need stitches, and when Zayn had caught his friendship bracelet on a piece of bark in a tree they had been climbing, and all the beads fell off. Louis about had a heart attack when that happened, but fixed it back up and put it on a sturdier string.

When school started back up, it felt different, but in a good way. Louis was in eighth grade and considered one of the cool kids for being part of the older crowd, and because Zayn hung out with him, it was like he was cool, too. Kids would always ask him his opinion on things like _who would be a better Batman_ , or _which drawing is better_. He didn’t like making decisions for others, so he’d always tell them whatever they liked best was the better choice. It worked for the most part, but Louis? He loved putting his two cents into everything, letting people know what he liked and what he loathed. It was all really funny to Zayn.

They would eat their lunches outside every day until it was too cold to stand, and only then did they bother to sit with the other students. They were all only faces to Zayn, a sea of talking heads that meant nothing to him. He didn’t know if Louis had other friends that he hung out with when Zayn had dentist appointments and doctor visits, but the days when Louis was home sick were the days that Zayn spent his time in the library, reading whichever book felt the lightest or had the most vibrant cover. Which was what he was doing on one particular day in November; the day that things changed between him and Louis.

It all started the same. He rode the bus home alone, stopping at Louis’ before checking in with his dad. He would know where Zayn was, after all. He kicked off his shoes at the front door and laid his jacket on the dinning room table when Louis’ dad handed him a soda.

“He’s upstairs,” he told Zayn, squeezing his shoulder lightly.

He crept down the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboard outside of Louis’ room. He stopped outside of his door, peeking in on him and finding nothing but a lump under a mountain of blankets. There was a nursing commercial playing on the television at an unbearably loud volume.

“How are you feeling?” he asked when he opened the door, closing it behind himself. He took the remote on the nightstand and muted the TV.

“Like I’m dying.” Louis had already missed two days that week, and he still looked sick. Zayn wondered how much longer he’d have to wait to have Louis back. “What’d I miss today?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Zayn made an unflattering face, earning a laugh from Louis that sounded choked. It was still a nice thing to hear after a long day of silence. Sat on the edge of Louis’ bed, Zayn ran his fingers over Louis’ arm. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Probably never. I’ll die in this bed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You’re putting yourself at risk of getting the plague.”

“You don’t have the plague.” He laid his palm flat on Louis’ forehead, feeling how heated his skin was. “It’s snowing out. Just a little bit, though.”

“It’s too early for snow.”

“It’s November.”

“Still too early.” Louis pulled the covers off of himself, scooting away from Zayn to make room for him. He patted the bed. “If you’re gonna get sick, might as well do it right.”

Zayn curled up on top of the blankets, not wanting to bring the outside cold into Louis’ bed, and stayed on his side so they could be face-to-face.

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember when you beat up Kyle Taysom?’

“Yeah,” Zayn laughed out. It died quickly when he saw that Louis wasn’t laughing with him.

“Do you ever think about what he said?”

“Uh, no. I don’t even remember what he said. He called you something, though.”

“ _Us_. He called us something.”

Zayn closed his eyes, thinking as hard as he could, trying desperately to remember what it was Kyle yelled. He whispered a single word, “Gay,” and opened his eyes. “Right?”

Louis started playing with the collar of Zayn’s shirt, not looking up at him. “Do you think you’re gay?”

‘Gay’ to the kids at school meant something bad, that was all Zayn knew. They used it the way they used curse words, yelling it as insults to hurt people. He didn’t like to think that he was something _bad_ , but the way Louis said it didn’t sound the same as when other people did.

“Do you mean,” he started, and stopped. “Do I like guys?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, how do you know something like that?”

“You see people, I guess, and you think they’re good looking.” He waited a long time before adding, “I’m gay.”

“Why do you say that?”

“All the girls at school look the same to me. I never notice anything about them.”

“But the guys?”

“They have nice faces.”

A pang off jealousy wrapped itself around Zayn’s heart, suffocating him. He spoke before thinking, asking, “Do you like my face?”

“You have the nicest face I’ve ever seen.”

Zayn felt like he was glowing with how excited he was. He bit back a grin when he asked, “Is that why you think you’re gay?”

“No.” Louis edged closer, rested his head on the same pillow Zayn used. “I’m gay because I want to kiss you,” he pressed a single finger to Zayn’s lips, “here.”

“Then why don’t you?” His voice was much more controlled than he felt. He was certain that if he had tried to stand, he would have toppled over and never gotten back up. “If you’ve wanted to do it, then why haven’t you tried?”

Louis’ eyes searched his face, eyebrows creased deeply. His voice was faint when he said, “You aren’t gay.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Don’t you look at girls?”

“I don’t look at anyone but you.”

Louis’ face relaxed, eyes going gentle. He first rested his forehead to Zayn’s, then pressed the tips of their noses together, laughing breathlessly when Zayn moved his head from side-to-side, rubbing them together. He was still smiling when his mouth touched Zayn’s.

With his heart pounding and his blood rushing, Zayn tried to kiss back the best he could, not that he had ever kissed anyone before, or really seen anyone kiss other than his parents. Their kisses were quick and small, a goodbye at the door or a thank you for getting groceries. Louis didn’t kiss like them. His lips were soft and pressed firmly together, and he was trembling, Zayn could feel it. Or maybe that had been him—he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Louis had a nice mouth that felt like heaven to him.

Louis had rested a hand on the side of Zayn’s face, his finger touching his hair, mouth moving as he kissed Zayn again, and again, until that was all they were doing. They breathed heavily through their noses, teeth clashing together every now and again. Zayn didn’t try to put his tongue in Louis’ mouth, and he was grateful that Louis hadn’t tried either.

When Louis pulled away, his eyes screwed shut, face tense, he asked in a shaky voice, “Am I weird?”

“Maybe. But if you are, then so am I.”

Louis nodded, opening his eyes.

“It’s okay to be weird, I think. And if we are, it’s not because we kiss.”

“Then why?”

Zayn shook his head, not knowing what to say then. He pulled Louis closer, worked an arm around him. “Isn’t everyone weird? Like those guys who are always blowing things up in the locker room. How about that one girl with the curly hair who talks with that fake English accent? She’s weird.”

Louis laughed, short and sweet, nuzzling up to Zayn’s neck. “What if we’re normal?”

“We might be. But I kinda doubt it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They lay in silence for the rest of the evening, Zayn listening to Louis’ soft exhales, thinking about his mouth and how nice it felt against his own. He wasn’t sure if he was gay, but he knew he liked when Louis cuddled up to him whenever he was cold, and how he always had to hold Zayn’s hand no matter what they were doing. And he liked the way Louis’ pillow smelled and how his eyes would get all squinty when he was angry. He didn’t think about other guys or girls, so it was possible to him then, that he was just Zayn, and Louis was only Louis. And he never once thought that there was anything wrong with it.

*

The school year ended and summer began, and with it came crisis after crisis. Louis would sneak through Zayn’s window more than just at night. He’d come in in the mornings, poking at Zayn until his eyes opened. Some days he’d come when Zayn was in the shower, not making a noise until Zayn stepped into his room to find a person sitting on his bed, and of course he screamed every now and again—anyone would. By the time July rolled around, he was used to it all. It became another part of his day: finding Louis hidden somewhere, chewing his nails and mumbling about hating his life.

Zayn was rummaging through his belongings one day, trying to decide what he wanted to keep and what he wanted to store in the attic. His parents had bought him a new set of bookshelves, not having realized that they were nearly two times smaller than the previous set. They offered to take them all back, but Zayn told them he didn’t mind. He had been meaning to clean out his shelves for a while, and it was just the kind of motivation he needed.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said as Louis smashed his face into his pillow, dry sobbing. “Will you stop? You sound like you’re dying.”

“I _am_ dying!”

Zayn laughed lowly, looking down at his notebooks scattered across the floor. Louis was making growling sounds on the bed, his feet kicked out behind him.

“Believe it or not, Lou, but everyone has to go to high school someday.”

“Easy for you to say! You still have one more year to go.”

“It’s _just_ high school.”

Louis sat up, eyes ice cold. “ _Just_? Are you listening to yourself?’

Zayn bit in his lips, avoiding Louis’ glare.

“Everyone’s going to be older there,” Louis groaned, dangling his feet over the side of the bed. He fell onto his back, spread out on the mattress. “I’ll have to wake up earlier.”

“But you get out earlier, too.”

“I have more classes!”

“Yeah, and they’re all shorter than they were in middle school.”

“I’ll have to make new friends.”

“Which is easy for you. Everyone loves you.”

“Let me be upset, Zayn, _god_ —” he rolled onto his stomach. “I hate everything.”

“You hate me?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Zayn smiled to himself, getting to his feet. He sat on the bed, ran a hand through Louis’ hair. “I think you’re being dramatic. Think of all the cool things that come with high school.”

“Like what?”

“Like clubs! They have clubs there. Academic stuff.”

“Not everyone is as smart as you, Zayn.”

“Hobby things too, _Lou_. I bet they have a drama club. You could join that.”

“Never mind I _do_ hate you.”

“And cooler classes to choose from,” he continued, ignoring Louis. “You actually get to pick your classes. So you’ll meet other people who like the things you like instead of being shoved into a room with a bunch of people who don’t know what you’re talking about. And think,” he huddled down, kissing Louis’ temple. “In another year, I’ll be there with you.”

A light flickered in Louis’ eyes, and he smiled. “I’ll miss you.”

“Yeah, me too. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

Zayn hated how stuffy the air began to feel then, his chest tightening. He thought of not eating lunch with Louis every day, and not walking home together anymore, and no more bus rides. It made his heart ache. “Let’s talk about something else,” he rushed out, bringing his knees to his chest. He leaned back against the wall, trying to think of something that would make Louis happy. He gasped almost instantly, remembering what day it was.

“What?” Louis demanded, staring up at him.

“Today’s Friday the 13th.”

“And?”

“You know what that means?”

“The world’s going to end?”

He hit Louis’ arm gently, scoffing. “No. AMC’s having a movie marathon tonight.”

Louis’ eyes widened. “Which movies?”

“All the original Frankenstein ones!”

“No _way_!”

“I knew it’d make you feel better,” Zayn beamed, enjoying the smile on Louis’ face. It’d been a while since he smiled. “I think it’s on at nine, so—”

“I’m staying over,” and, as if to emphasize that he wasn’t going anywhere, Louis pulled back the covers and nestled under them, hiding everything but his feet.

When the marathon began, Zayn was curled up at the head of his bed with Louis’ head rested on his chest. They were surrounded by a cluster of junk food, unopened cans of soda lay on their sides near Louis’ legs, a bag of Twizzlers as their only company.

“This movie is so sad,” Louis muttered as Frankenstein ran from a crowd of hunters. “He just wanted to be their friend.”

“At least he finds someone who loves him in the end of it all. Right?”

“He waits a long time for his happiness, though.”

Zayn rubbed his thumb against Louis’ upper arm, unsure of what to say.

“I’m gonna be Frankenstein,” Louis said, dully. “And all those hunters are high school.”

“You’re _not_ Frankenstein.”

“Yes, I am,” and he buried his face into Zayn’s shirt, sighing. “They’re gonna laugh at me, and make fun of me and look at me weird, like I’m some piece of meat that they want to tear apart.”

“Where do you get this stuff?”

“John Hughes, mostly.”

“What, the guy who made The Breakfast Club?”

Louis grunted, Zayn took it as a _yes_.

“If you’re anyone in that movie, then you’re definitely the jock guy.”

“ _How_?”

“Well, think about it. You could totally get into sports in high school. Maybe join the football team, or something?”

Louis stared at him with his mouth opened, eyes narrowed. “No.”

“It’s just a thought! Anything could happen.”

“I’m not doing football.”

“Okay. Something else, then. You’ll find something you like,” he cupped Louis’ jaw, staring him in the eye. “It’ll be okay, Lou. You’ll see.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Louis smiled, tight lipped and small, his eyes fluttering shut. He gripped the front of Zayn’s shirt tightly, and whispered, “You know what?’

“What?”

His eyes opened again, but this time they were red rimmed and sad. “I love you.”

Louis had told Zayn countless times that he loved him. It was just another part of their vocabulary. _Goodnight, love you_ , _I’ll see you at lunch, love you_. It wasn’t a big deal. Until then, when Louis’ bottom lip trembled and fear stuck out in his eyes as a reminder that Zayn wouldn’t be an arms length away the next time Louis needed him. It made Zayn’s spine straighten, his hands wrapping protectively around Louis’ middle.

“I love you, too,” he said, the weight of the words hanging in the air. It was scary and it was exciting, everything that Louis was, and Zayn wanted to drown in the moment. And had he known then that it would be one of the last times Louis looked at him as if he were really someone, as if Zayn was the reason the sun shined each morning, he would have held onto it longer. He would have kissed Louis hard, would have clung to him with desperate hands and a heart that beat too loudly. But he didn’t. And he’s never known why.

*

Louis’ first month in high school didn’t go as smoothly as Zayn had hoped, but it wasn’t as terrible as Louis expected. He’d get home an entire hour earlier than Zayn, and he’d always wait in his room or crawl through the window the moment he saw Zayn was home. Zayn never found out why Louis had stopped using the front door completely, but it never really mattered.

The second month turned out better than the first, the third and fourth even better than that. Louis didn’t join the drama club, but he did start staying late after school to take extra tutoring for his math. Zayn offered to help—he was in algebra already—but Louis said he could handle it. Zayn tried not to take it personally, but it happened anyway.

Louis’ visits grew shorter, coming less frequently. He told Zayn that he had too much homework to do, or was too tired from his extra classes. Zayn could never imagine doing all the work Louis had to do, so he never complained about it. And when he would feel exceptionally lonely, he’d remind himself that seeing Louis once a week was much better than never at all. But as the weeks went on and Louis only came by a couple times a month, Zayn stopped believing his own words. He hated to feel so far from Louis, too scared to upset him to ask why he didn’t come over anymore. He didn’t want to damper the moments he had left, didn’t want Louis to think he was clinging too hard.

They stopped holding hands long before Louis stopping coming by, and it felt weird to Zayn to not have someone to kiss anymore, or to touch, or to hold. His heart felt funny all the time, his head filled with questions, wondering when Louis would start crawling through his window again, or why he never called when he couldn’t make it over. Was high school really that hard?

The week before that Christmas was the last time Zayn really saw Louis. He had been checking the mail for his mom when he looked over their wooden fence and caught sight of Louis, bundled up in a heavy winter coat. It was teal with faux fur around the hood. It made his eyes brighter than usual.

“Hey,” Zayn said.

Louis looked over the fence. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for my dad,” Louis made his way over, hands buried in his pockets. “What about you?” He walked differently, his pants a little looser.

Zayn held up the letters and smiled. “Just the mail.” Louis even smelled different.

“You look nice. Did you get a haircut?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, still. You look nice.”

“Thanks. What are you doing today?”

“Just going out with my dad. We have to get things for the house. One of the sinks aren’t working, or something. I don’t know.”

“Wanna hang out tonight? I got a lot of new comics to show you.”

“I don’t, uh,” he cleared his throat, feet shuffling on the sidewalk. “I don’t really read comics anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. You haven’t been over.”

Louis forced a smile that Zayn wasn’t fond of seeing on him. “I can’t tonight, I’m…” he looked over his shoulder towards an oncoming car. “Busy. But how about next week?”

“Okay.”

“That’s my dad,” he thumped Zayn’s arm. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Zayn waved goodbye, tucking the mail under his arm, and feeling as if the entire world had shifted beneath his feet.

Louis didn’t show the next week, or the week after that, and Zayn didn’t see him outside anymore unless other people were with him. A lot of new faces started showing up, older boys with long hair and baggy jeans and sunglasses. They smoked cigarettes and spat on the sidewalk, always jumping around and goofing off. They drove cars and had wristwatches. They were all very intimidating to Zayn, who felt like a child in comparison to them. They didn’t even look like they were into the same things he and Louis were into. It had never occurred to him that Louis’ interests changed. To him, Louis was still the same kid who threw rocks at him whenever Zayn called him stupid, and who always got angry when Zayn mocked him or repeated everything he said. Louis wasn’t like those guys, and Zayn hated not being able to see what Louis saw in them.

The months continued on and everything changed. Zayn’s voice got deeper and he got taller, almost taller than his mom by the time he started high school. He never quite got used to the silence in his room, or the missing feeling that would threaten to eat him alive if he stared too hard at his bedroom window, willing a tap to come on the glass.

He opted for extra help after school, sometimes wishing that he’d run into Louis at some point. He never looked for him in the halls, because he was certain that Louis wasn’t looking for him either. When Zayn met his first high school friend, a boy by the name of Curtis who wore large glasses and his house key on a necklace so he wouldn’t lose it, Louis was nothing but an old memory faded to black.

Curtis was nice enough. He’d stop by every other weekend to stay up late and watch the old black and white films that showed at three in the morning, and he helped Zayn with his homework, teaching him ways to better understand chemistry and physics. By the end of the year, Zayn had a 3.5 GPA and he owed it all to Curtis. But during their sophomore year, Curtis moved to Minnesota, leaving Zayn alone yet again. They kept in touch for a few months, until Zayn lost his email address. It was for the better, he thinks; they really didn’t have much in common. Being alone wasn’t so bad at first. Eating lunch alone was fine, and reading alone in the library was almost enjoyable, but it was when he was in class that Zayn realized that having friends was the only thing that made high school bearable.

More often than not, he caught himself thinking of Louis, wondering how he was doing and what he was up to. They hadn’t talked in over two years, but they still waved good morning when they were leaving for class. Louis had a car and a license since he was 17, but never once did he offer Zayn a ride. Zayn wasn’t sure if he’d even accept if the time ever came.

One Monday morning, as Zayn was sitting in the back of his shop class, listening to Mr. Cooper drone on and on about the importance of power tools, he heard a soft mouse-like voice whisper, “Hey.”

He turned, confused. It was one of the only two freshman in his class, the one with the unruly hair that covered most of his face. From his close range, Zayn could see he had green eyes, and they were bright like Louis’ were.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the vacant seat next to Zayn.

Zayn said, “Yeah,” smiling sweetly.

The boy sat down, crossing his arms over the tabletop. He leaned over then, his eyes still focused on Mr. Cooper. He said, “I’m Harry.” He had a deep voice that reeled Zayn in instantly.

“Zayn.”

“Cool name.”

“Thanks.”

Harry sat upright again, resting his chin on his arms.

Zayn waited a moment before asking, “How old are you, Harry?”

“Fifteen.”

“I’m sixteen,” he said, thinking, _he didn’t ask_.

Harry ended up being Zayn’s closest friend that year, and the following year as well. They ate lunch together and read the same books. Harry stopped by after school almost every day—he lived only three blocks away—and he was the best listener Zayn had ever met. He could tell Harry anything without feeling stupid or lame.

One night, they sneaked into Harry’s dad’s’ wine cellar and split a bottle between the two of them. It was a heinous night for Zayn, the alcohol bringing back old memories that he had buried deep within himself. He told Harry everything about Louis, from his Iron Man shirt to the friendship bracelet that he no longer wore, but kept safe on his key chain. He told Harry that he had never loved anyone before and that he had never lost anyone, either. Harry had listened, had held Zayn when he cried too hard to breathe. He even gave halfhearted answers when Zayn asked terrible questions like _Am I a bad friend?_ and _Is there something wrong with me?_

Zayn was always grateful for Harry. As the months kept passing, he learned that Harry was someone he could kiss, someone he could hold hands with. When he was with him, things felt alright again. _He_ felt alright. Though he had made it clear to Harry that they were only friends, friends who did these things because Zayn never knew any other kind of friend, Harry still treated him as if Zayn were his boyfriend. It was nice to be wanted and to want again, so Zayn never corrected him. He knew Harry knew the difference. And even though he had given Harry things that he could never give another, had slept with Harry in different ways than he had slept with Louis, there were times when Zayn was alone in his room, staring at his bedroom window, wishing with all his heart that he’d hear a tapping on the glass and a familiar, yet deeper and different, voice whisper to him.

He was with Harry, but he was never whole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic mix for teen years: [here](http://8tracks.com/d3bonair/this-door-is-always-open).

When Zayn turned seventeen, as a sort of gift, his mom set up their garage as his workshop. It’s where he spends most of his nights, painting with spray cans and old watercolors. He has yet to make something he likes well enough to hang, or to really show anyone besides Harry, but he makes sure to always save his work. He has an old entertainment stand that his dad made long before they ever moved—its wood partially rotted, the hinges rusted—where he stacks his dried paintings and keeps his stereo when the quiet of the night holds no inspiration. Now, with a blue spray can in hand and a blotched and colored canvas in front of him, Ian Curtis’ voice fills the void of his garage, singing about tearing love apart. Zayn can’t help but bob his head along to the beat, tapping his feet and singing along as he creates bright line after line.

As he’s trying to decide between adding green or yellow to his project, the garage door’s motor whirrs, seeming to shake the entire house as it opens. He squints through his goggles, expecting to find either his mom or dad standing outside, ready to tell him to turn down his music, but it’s Harry, still wearing his Burger King uniform.

“You just get off work?” Zayn calls, pulling his mask off. Harry’s hair is flat against his head, evidence of wearing his visor, and Zayn can smell French fries on his uniform when he steps closer.

“You didn’t answer your phone. So I thought I’d just stop by.” He stands at Zayn’s side, looking down at the array of colors. “What is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” he wraps an arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him in for a kiss. “Mm, fast food.”

“You hungry?”

“Nah. Just ate.”

“It’s 9:30,” Harry raises an eyebrow. “You did _not_ just eat.”

“Well, a bit ago, then. Don’t worry.”

“I got something,” Harry singsongs, wiggling out of Zayn’s hold.

“Oh, yeah? What is it?’

Shaking his shoulders, and dancing around in a way that makes Zayn choke back a laugh, Harry pulls a wadded up envelope out of his back pocket. “Look—”

Zayn snatches it, holding it out of Harry’s reach. “Your first paycheck?” he shouts, happily, pride knocking him right in the face. “Look at you! Big money.”

“It’s not much.”

Reading the paper, Zayn whistles. “225. That’s more than I have. It’s good!” Turning the check over in his hands, he sighs heavily. Just looking at it makes him miss his old job, but Home Depot hadn’t been keen on the whole smoking pot thing, and how was he supposed to know if he dropped something on his foot that he had to give a piss test? He thought it had been inconvenient then, and that’s what he thinks now. Handing the check back, he hooks a finger into the collar of Harry’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. “What are you gonna do with it?”

“What do people usually do with money?”

“Save it?”

“Spend it.”

Snorting, Zayn bites his lip. “Or spend it, yeah.”

“Want to catch a movie?”

“Tonight?”

He nods. “It’s Saturday, after all.”

Zayn kisses him again—this time long and sweet. “That’d be nice. You going like that, though?”

“Fuck no. I gotta change.”

“Cool. I’ll come with.” He tosses his mask in his art bin and lines his spray cans along the wall, light to dark. Giving Harry’s thigh a solid pat, he growls in his ear, loud and playful, biting him gently. “You don’t taste as good as you smell.”

“Take it back, or you’ll be walking.”

With his chest pressed to Harry’s back, and his arms wrapped around his middle, Zayn walks on the heels of Harry’s shoes, pushing him towards his car. “Love when you talk dirty,” he mumbles, getting a sharp elbow to the ribs.

The movie they settle on—or really, the movie Zayn’s been wanting to see for weeks and is not above begging Harry to see it with him—is a horror film about creatures that live in the walls of some unlucky family’s new home. It’s not exactly scary, but it has its thrills that make Harry’s fingers twitch and his hand grip Zayn’s arm until his knuckles are white. Zayn loves how easily Harry’s spooked, it’s the best part about him. Even the drop of a pen in the middle of a deserted hall at school gets Harry jumping a good three feet in the air, and he reminds Zayn of a cat: skittish, and always on edge.

There’s a scene where one of the main characters is parading about in the dark, trying to find the cause of some scratching on the inside of the walls—rats, they think—and all the while, as Zayn shovels popcorn into his mouth, Harry’s there tucked into his side, his face hidden behind splayed fingers.

“She’s going to die,” Zayn whispers, mouth pressed to Harry’s ear. “You can go ahead and look.”

“What for?”

“Well, you already know what’s going to happen, so why not? You’re going to miss the best part.”

“Watching people die isn’t exactly fun for me,” he whispers back, louder than he intended. They get a stern _shh_ from the guy beside them. “Sorry.”

Zayn doesn’t care, though. He pulls Harry closer, muttering, “Just watch.”

“How do you know she’s gonna die? Anything could happen.”

“It’s the ones you least expect to die that usually do.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yes, it does.”

“If you don’t think she’s going to die, then you wouldn’t be telling me that she’s _going to die_.”

“I expect it _now_.”

“So, then your theory is crushed, isn’t it? Now that you expect it, it won’t happen.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, laughing to himself. “Alright. Whatever. Watch the damn scene,” and just as Harry brings his hand away from his face, the woman dies with a scalpel through her left eye, the thin blade poking through the back of her head. Zayn sucks air  in through his teeth, eyes wide, trying not to laugh when Harry groans next to him.

They leave before the end credits really start rolling, Harry leading Zayn by his hand through the crowd.

“That was terrible,” he whines as he clicks off his car alarm. “What even _was_ that? Little monsters living in their walls?”

Opening the passenger door, Zayn leans against the side of the car, one leg elevated on the seat. “Kind of reminded me of that Lovecraft story. Know the one I’m talking about?”

“The Rats in the Walls?”

Zayn snaps his fingers. “That’s the one!”

“Yeah, okay. I see that.”

“See? Maybe it was inspired by that, or something.” Zayn plops down in his seat, waiting for Harry to climb into the car. They shut their doors at the same time, something they mastered back when Harry first got his car. “You can’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You don’t like _anything_.”

“I just don’t understand your fascination with gore!” Harry turns the engine, blasting the heater and holding his reddened fingers in front of the vents. Zayn notices, as he’s picking the lint off of Harry’s sleeve, that he’s wearing one of Zayn’s old jackets—one he thought he lost last winter.

“It’s not really a fascination,” he defends, crossing his arms. “That’s a pretty strong word. Maybe _interest_ would be better. You say fascination and I sound like an axe-murderer in the making.”

“You’re the one who likes watching people get killed.”

“It’s not so much the killing. It’s fun to be scared.”

Harry scoffs, shifting into reverse. He puts an arm behind Zayn’s seat, turned around to look through the rear windshield. “Does this relate to some kind of childhood trauma,” he teases.

“I just like good horror films! That’s _it_.”

“Good being the keyword.”

“Yeah,” Zayn laughs, his head tilted back against the seat. He lets his eyes shut. “I guess they haven’t really made many good ones since the classics.”

“What, like Frankenstein?”

Zayn’s hand twitches, his smile faltering and fading away. Harry’s saying something else, his voice drones in Zayn’s ears, but he doesn’t hear anything. He hasn’t seen Frankenstein in years.

“Hey,” Harry touches his leg. “You okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, just tired.”

“So, I take it you don’t want to come over tonight?”

“I’d love to, but,” he scrubs a hand over his face, clears his throat. “I can’t.”

Harry clicks his tongue, his eyes set on the road. He’s quiet when he says, “Can I ask why not?”

Laying a reassuring hand on Harry’s arm, Zayn turns to him, his eyes only half opened. “I have Mike Whannel’s math homework to do.”

“Can’t you do it tomorrow?”

“I wish. I have four pages to do. Front and back.”

Harry makes a face. “He gave you that much work this late in the week? When’s it due?”

“Tuesday, I think. I told him I’d have it to him Monday. He gave it to me, like, four days ago, but you know me,” he laughs. “Procrastination is my middle name.”

“Why Mike? Football Mike?”

“The very one.”

“But he’s usually top of his class.”

“Not math.” Zayn’s never liked having to explain things to Harry. He always finds explanations as to why Zayn shouldn’t do certain things, and even though his heart is in the right place, Zayn walks away irritated more often than not. “It’s alright, though. It’ll be done by Monday and we can go out and do whatever we want.”

“I work Monday,” Harry says, softly. Zayn isn’t sure if it was meant for his ears, or if Harry had just been thinking out loud. He doesn’t comment on it, but slides his hand down to hold Harry’s, hoping he isn’t too upset.

It’s after midnight when they stop outside Zayn’s house, the lights all turned out. He gives Harry a smile, telling him that he’ll see him at school, and that he better drive safe. They kiss through the driver side window, Zayn with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and Harry with his hands lost in the sleeves of his jacket, teeth chattering.

He lights his smoke as soon as Harry’s gone, and inhales shakily, the cold getting to him. He doesn’t have a jacket on, and he’s starting to regret not thinking ahead. It’s not quite winter yet, but it’s chilly and his fingers are numb. He thinks about stomping out the cigarette—he can just hang out his bedroom window and smoke another once he’s good and warm—but a bright light deters his attention. Two, actually. Both tinted blue: the brights of some asshole’s car.

Watching, and expecting the car to carry on down the road, Zayn’s mortified that it stops just short of his yard. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut as Louis climbs out from behind the steering wheel, clad in a red sweater, too long in the arms. It looks as if it’s trying to eat him whole.

Zayn inhales his smoke sharply, stifling a cough that threatens him as the air hits the back of his throat.

“Hey,” Louis calls, having spotted him.

Zayn thinks about running inside, ignoring Louis completely, but his heart gets the better of him, his mouth spitting out, “Hey, yourself,” before he can think.

“It’s a little cold to just be standing out here, don’t you think?” He’s being polite. Zayn hates when Louis’ being polite.

“Not just standing.” He holds up his cigarette so that Louis can see the burning end.

“Oh,” he nods. “Well, goodnight.”

Zayn gives a lame wave and a weak smile as he watches Louis disappear behind their old fence, now crooked and damaged from the harsh winters and heavy rains. He doesn’t want to think about the first time he saw Louis, popped over the top with one tooth missing, but it’s hard not to when the boy he’s looking at is no longer a boy, but a man with a sweater too big and hair that’s too long in the back. He looks good—great, even—and Zayn can’t stand it.

*

Mike Whannel is a big guy—huge, in fact—and he has a good four inches on Zayn (not counting the volume of his hair). Under different circumstances, if Zayn had not been Zayn and Mike had not been Mike, and if he hadn’t needed Zayn’s help passing his trigonometry class, Zayn might have possibly been afraid him. But in the situation that they were in now, Zayn knew he held the upper hand and nothing made him happier than a big, intimidating guy squirming under his boot.

“Malik, come _on_.”

“No.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“And _you_ know my prices,” Zayn says casually, as if he and Mike were talking about the weather rather than the homework at hand. “It’s twenty for an A, and _this_ ,” he waves the pages he had been hovering over for the past two nights in front of Mike’s face, “is an A. What you have is not a twenty.”

“I’m five short, it’s no big deal! Take the fifteen and we’ll say I owe you one.”

“No. People like you don’t owe people like me anything. It’s the five, or no homework.”

“I don’t have it right now!” Mike says, getting heated. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that tells Zayn that he’s close to getting what he wants.

“Mike, I’m doing you a favor, huh? It’s not that hard to crack open your own text book and do the work yourself. It’s not due until tomorrow. You can work on it tonight.”

“You know I have practice, man!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem.”

“Okay, okay. How about this?” He digs around in his pockets. “The fifteen and a pack of Reds.”

“I don’t smoke Reds.”

“Blacks, then.”

“I only smoke camels.”

“I don’t have those!’

Zayn gives a small shrug, rolling the papers up. It’s all for show. He knows Mike will cave eventually, and he’s learned from the past that the longer he stands there, looking displeased, the more he’s offered.

Mike’s searching Zayn’s eyes, looking for a weakness that they both know he won’t find. “How about the fifteen and the Blacks today? I can bring you the five on Wednesday.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay, tomorrow.”

“So, the fifteen, the smokes, _and_ the five. _Tomorrow_ , Mike. Otherwise Miss, uh,” he checks the paper. “Miss Scott will be hearing some news that she won’t be too happy to hear.”

“God dammit, okay.” Mike hands over the money and the pack of cigarettes. “You really know how to bust some balls, Malik.”

“It’s nothing against you, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he takes the papers.

“What if word got out that I gave you a freebie, huh? What would that do for my rep? People would be trying to bribe their way out of everything.”

“I get it,” Mike says, the slight sound of anger in his voice.

Zayn gives his shoulder a firm pat, smiling the nicest that he can manage so that Mike knows that they’re still open for business when the time comes.

There are a lot of people like Mike in their school, people who would rather buy their way out of any kind of work rather than actually apply themselves. They are the weak links in the small community of Westward High that Zayn latched onto two years ago. When word got out that he had a nearly perfect GPA by the end of his freshman year, more than half of his History class asked for tutoring and for help and Zayn never had the patience for either, but he did have the time to take their work off their hands, and it came as no surprise when he found that he had more clientele than the nearest corner store. Home Depot be damned, Zayn Malik knew how to pay bills without paychecks, and he likes to look at it as his gift to society. Or something like that.

He and Mike go their separate ways when the class bell rings, signaling everyone to get to their designated buildings. Zayn’s in the middle of texting Harry a quick, _let’s skip our last two classes_ as he slips into the English building. It takes no time at all for Harry to text back, _why not now?_ and Zayn’s hurriedly ducking the administration, walking right back out of the building and off campus.

They learned the previous year that there was a weak spot in campus security over on the west wing of the school. There was only one guard on duty, and during third and fourth hour, this guard always took his break. So it really was no hassle at all to wait in Harry’s car until all the remaining students made it to their classes, then they’d just drive off. Easy as that.

Parked behind the public library, only four blocks away from the school, Zayn’s crouched down in the backseat of Harry’s car, loading a bowl. Hot-boxing Harry’s car is really all they ever skip class for. Luckily, their grades can afford it, otherwise Zayn might have thought they were on a one-way track to being like Mike Whannel.

“Not too much,” Harry warns. “You know I work today.”

“That’s right. What time?’

“Four.”

“You have _hours_ ,” Zayn knocks his knee against Harry’s. “You’ll be sober by then.”

“Yeah, but,” he shakes his head. “I woke up tired this morning and all that’s gonna do it bring me down.”

“You don’t want to smoke at all?”

“Just a couple hits.”

Zayn brings the piece to his mouth, lighting the bowl and inhaling deeply. He holds in a cough as he grabs at Harry’s shoulder, all but yanking him closer, pressing their opened mouths together. He exhales, hands on either side of Harry’s jaw, breathing slowly. Harry tries to kiss him, but Zayn pulls away, whispering, “Hold it in.”

“So, did you talk to Mike,” Harry asks through a mouthful of smoke.

“Yeah. He tried to short me five bucks. But I got these,” he tosses the cigarettes into Harry’s lap. “I don’t smoke ‘em, and probably won’t. You want ‘em?”

“What are they?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of ‘em.”

Harry coughs into his fist, half choking, half wheezing. Zayn thumps him hard on the back, trying not to laugh.

“Take it easy,” he teases. “You know when you cough it only makes you higher.”

Harry’s face is all scrunched up, his cheeks red.

“You feelin’ alright?”

He nods, smiles when Zayn kisses his temple.

Zayn takes another hit, slow and deep, tilting his head back as the smoke fills his lungs. He offers the pipe to Harry, who shakes his head. “You don’t want anymore?’

“No, I’m good.”

Cradling the pipe, Zayn leans back on the seat, spreading out. He rests his head against the car window, one foot on the opposing door, one on the floorboards. Harry weasels his way between Zayn’s legs, laying his head on his stomach. It’s quiet for a long time, the fog of the smoke making everything seem blurry.

“I hardly see you anymore,” Zayn mumbles. It’s meant to be a joke, something lighthearted said in passing, but Harry looks up at him, grinning. “Oh, shut _up_.”

“You miss me?”

“No,” he says, stubbornly, and had they been lying in Zayn’s bed, he would have rolled on his side, away from Harry. “I was just saying.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to deny it.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Like when?”

“Like late at night,” he laughs when Harry’s smile disappears instantly, replaced by a frown and narrowed eyes. “When I’m sober and alone and all I have is my right hand.”

“You’re an ass,” Harry says, burying his face back into Zayn’s stomach.

“Hey, hey. I’m only kidding.”

Harry doesn’t budge.

“C’mon, I’m joking. Don’t do the silent treatment, okay? You know I hate that.”

He shrugs, peeking up through his hair.

“What is it?” Zayn asks, not liking the serious glint in Harry’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Well… _I_ miss _you_.”

“Ah, Harry,” Zayn cups his jaw, willing him closer, his voice taking on an almost saccharine tone. “It’s only a joke. You know I miss you.”

With their chests pressed together, Harry tucks his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck as Zayn plays with the back of his hair, entertaining himself with Harry’s particularly long curls that wind around the entire length of his fingers. The minutes tick by, the car growing stuffy, the smoke evaporating.

Zayn’s mouth is terribly dry, his eyes itchy. He thinks about how he’d do just about anything for a soda and some fries—then thinks about Harry in his Burger King uniform, complete with the ridiculous visor that his hair sometimes pokes out the top of, and he’s laughing and he just can’t stop.

“What?” Harry asks, poking Zayn’s side. Then again when Zayn doesn’t answer, “ _What_?”

“I’m hungry.”

“And you’re laughing about it?”

Zayn snorts, tightening his hold on Harry. His laughter tapers off into slow, spaced out giggles that Harry ignores. “You know what’s weird?” he asks some time later, unable to really _tell_ time anymore.

“Hmm?”

“I saw Louis the other day, and he said hi.”

Harry stiffens instantly, his breathing changed. Zayn lies with wide eyes, not really breathing himself, and he can’t figure out why he said anything in the first place.

“He said hi?” Harry asks, voice slightly shaken.

“Yeah.”

“What did _you_ say?”

“Hi.”

“That’s it?’

“Yeah.”

Harry goes silent, and Zayn doesn’t know if he believes him or not. Feeling guilty, he kisses the top of Harry’s head, wishing he didn’t take everything about Louis so seriously. Zayn doesn’t know whether Harry would ever be okay if Louis were to come back into his life—which is, like, seriously out of the question, Zayn knows that—but, if it ever happened, he’s sure that Harry would take it all the wrong way.

“He mentioned the weather,” Zayn adds, hoping he realizes that it was nothing at all. But if it is really nothing, then Zayn doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about it. “Then he went inside.”

“The…weather?”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously?”

He nods, setting his pipe on the floor and turning Harry’s face up so that he can see his eyes. “It was just weird. That’s all.”

Harry doesn’t say or do anything.

“I didn’t mean to bring him up,” Zayn whispers, regretting everything in his life. “It was just for conversation, you know? C’mon, get that look off your face.” This only makes matters worse, Harry instantly darting Zayn’s gaze, his brows knitted together. “Hey, look at me. You’re happy, right? Like this?” He makes a weak motion between the two of them, hoping Harry understands what he means.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Yes?”

He nods, “ _Yes_ , Zayn.”

“If you’re happy,” Zayn starts, feeling the pains of desperation eat away at his nerves, “and I’m happy, then let’s just…forget everything, okay?” He kisses Harry’s neck, his shoulder, takes his hand within his own and with one simple move, flips them so that Harry’s pinned between Zayn and the backseat. “You look upset.”

“I’m not.”

“Could you be happier?” he asks, obviously feeling too bold for his own good. He takes Harry’s hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his fingers, his palm and down to his wrist, mouthing at the veins beneath his skin.

Harry only shrugs.

“Is that yes?” He waits, receives nothing. “What will make you happier? You can tell me.”

Inhaling sharply, Harry sighs and whispers the two words that Zayn is least expecting to hear, “Going steady.”

He freezes, mouth falling away from Harry’s wrist. He stares down at him, trying not to breathe too harshly for fear of giving away just how much those words unsettle him.

Harry acts quickly, grabbing Zayn’s face with both his hands. Pulling him down and kissing him hard, he says, mouth still working against Zayn’s own, “It’s okay. I didn’t say anything.”

Zayn kisses back because he has nothing else to do, and nothing to say to make it all okay, and he hates himself for it. When Harry lifts Zayn’s shirt, unbuckling his jeans, starting to whisper that he’s sorry for bringing it up, and he’s sorry that he’s upset—to let him make it better, Zayn doesn’t know what to do other than go along with it. He wants to please Harry just like Harry wants to please him, and he knows it’s unhealthy in more ways than one, but it’s all he has—all they have. With how many times Harry whispers _I love you_ in the dark with no response, Zayn owes it to him.

“You’re not mad?” Harry asks, weakly.

“What? _No._ ” Zayn pushes his hands away before he can go any further, before it all gets swept under the rug. “I’m not—” he leans in, scooping Harry up into his arms, lying flat on him so they’re as close as they can be. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know. I just—”

Zayn cuts him off with a kiss, swallowing his words and wishing he could take his sadness with them. “I’m sorry I can’t give that to you,” he whispers.

“I don’t understand why not.”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says, mind reeling. It’s not that the word _boyfriend_ scares him, and it’s not that he thinks of Harry as only a friend—that’s already obvious. It’s the thought of lying to him, pretending that Harry has every fiber of him when it’s the farthest thing from the truth. Because it’s not Harry’s fingerprints that are etched on Zayn’s heart.

It’s horrible, he thinks as he holds Harry, how the light of his world still rests in Louis’ eyes and how Louis doesn’t even know it, but Harry does. Harry’s always known.

“You want to go home?” Zayn asks, forehead resting to the side of Harry’s face. “My folks aren’t there. We can just…lie around until you have to go to work. Watch a couple movies?”

“Okay.”

Zayn makes quick work of his jeans and belt, readjusting himself and climbing into the front seat, stashing his pipe in the glove compartment. The ride home is silent and stiff, their hands clasped together over the center console as if they’d float away if either of them broke the bond. But the bed helps, and so does the TV. The pain in Zayn’s chest begins to wither by the time Harry’s getting ready for work, wearing a pair of Zayn’s black jeans and an undershirt.

“Will you call tonight?” Zayn asks at the front door, wanting Harry to stay.

“Once I’m off, yeah.”

“And I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“7 AM, bright and early.” He smiles and it’s genuine, making everything feel so much better. “Don’t be late this time.”

Zayn promises he won’t be, and kisses him goodbye, watching from the living room window as Harry’s car pulls out of the drive, disappearing from view.

*

The week moves at an unbearably slow pace. Harry only stops by twice more before the weekend, work keeping him away (although Zayn still can’t shake the feeling that he’s upset).

It’s Friday night and Zayn’s back in his garage. He isn’t really working, more so staring at his previous canvas and hating everything he sees. It’s a mess; a horrible, terrible mess with dead spots and bad color arrangements. He inhales, groans loudly, his voice echoing in his mask.

“Honey?”

Zayn yelps, stumbling back. His mom’s standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.

“You doing okay in here?”

“Fine, mom. I’m fine.” He drops his mask around his neck, feeling very small under his mother’s gaze.

“Are you feeling alright?”

He sputters, “Yes. Why?”

“How’s school?”

“Uh…fine.”

“Just fine?”

It hits him like a ton of bricks—the look in his mom’s eyes, the tone of her voice. She’s fishing for something, and he doesn’t know what. Either way, she won’t get it. “Mom, please. I’m working.”

“I just came to ask you to open the garage door. I can smell the fumes inside,” she makes a face. “It’s driving me nuts.”

“Go for it,” he points to the button on the wall, replacing his mask on his face when she heads back inside. The fresh air feels nice, the smell of pine working its way into his senses. He selects a paint at random, shaking the can and holding it out, ready to fire, when a loud, angry voice comes from outside. He knows the voice, has heard it many times before, but never has he heard it say the words that echo in his ears.

“Just shut up.”

“ _Listen to me_ —” a voice Zayn doesn’t know. The tone makes his blood feel cold, his fingers itch.

Without thinking, Zayn walks down the drive and stops in his tracks as his eyes land on Louis and a guy he’s never seen before. There’s a car in front of his house, different from the one Zayn sees every day. It must belong to the mystery man.

Louis’ in the process of shoving this guy away from him, his face distorted into a mask of anger. It makes Zayn’s body hurt, the emotions reflecting onto him. He walks farther, closer, wanting to know what’s going on. He feels like a lost puppy, not knowing what to do. He shouldn’t get involved, Louis wouldn’t like it.

It’s when this all dawns on him that Louis catches sight of Zayn, his anger melting away instantly and replaced with a look of confusion.

“Zayn?” he asks.

The guy turns around, eye cold, mouth pinched shut. As soon as his eyes meet Zayn’s, he breaks out into a laugh, choked and ugly.

“Look at this guy,” he says, as if Louis will laugh with him. “What’s up, Walter White.”

Walter White? Zayn doesn’t—he touches his face, feels the mask. Okay, fine. Sure. Walter White. He pulls it off, still staring at Louis.

“Don’t be a dick,” Louis tells the guy, shoving him again.

“Oh, come _on._ What, you know this dude?”

Louis scoffs, pushing past him and heading straight for Zayn. It’s the closest they’ve been in years.

“Hey,” he whispers. Zayn wonders if he doesn’t want the other guy to hear him. “It’s okay,” he says, crowding closer. There’s warning in his eyes, recognition in his voice. “I’m okay.”

It’s hard for Zayn to breathe, hard to think straight. Louis’ so close, only inches away and if Zayn wanted to—truly wanted to, which he fucking does—he could reach out and touch him, could feel that he’s real again. He doesn’t say anything, not because he doesn’t want to—he has a lot of things he wants to say—but his throat is closed up. He walks backwards, never breaking Louis’ gaze, and goes back into the garage, shutting the door as soon as he can reach the button. Louis’ still standing in the driveway as it comes to a stop, a barrier built between them.

Zayn counts to sixty, sure that Louis’ gone by then, and without a warning, he kicks at the canvas he was working on, stomps on it, throws it; feels his blood boiling and heat rising to his face. Angry tears line his eyes, questions bombarding him. Who was that guy? Why did he laugh? Why would Louis—Louis, Louis…

He throws his mask, kicks his cans and doesn’t care. He wants to sleep and forget it all. He wants to see Harry to wash himself of everything. As he stumbles through the kitchen, all but running for the bathroom and ignoring his mother when she calls to him, he locks himself behind the door, running the shower. He collapses down, hugging his knees, his hands shaking. He feels eleven again, like Louis needs him—but Louis doesn’t, and it only makes it worse.

*

Zayn’s parents leave early Sunday afternoon, saying that they’re taking the day for themselves and to only call if it’s an emergency. They leave him the car, and he finds that giving Waliyha thirty bucks and dropping her off at the mall is the best idea he’s had in some time. He can’t even remember when he last had the house to himself, so really, it takes him no time at all to get Harry over and into bed.

With one palm flat on the headboard, the other gripping the bedsheets, Zayn rocks his hips at a steady pace. Harry’s head is tilted back, soft, airy moans slipping through his lips as his blunt nails dig into Zayn’s back. He’s been known to draw blood in the past, and Zayn wouldn’t say that he really minds—it’s just a thing that Harry does when he’s too worked up—but when he feels one particularly hard pinch break through his skin, he gasps, hips faltering.

“Careful,” he whispers.

There’s a soft, “Sorry,” and the weight of Harry’s legs settle around Zayn’s waist. Harry cants his hips, back arching. He breathes out a faint, “Wait.”

Zayn keeps his hips moving. “What’s up?”

“Remind me to—” he groans, legs beginning to tremble. He grinds down. “Just remind me to show you the text.”

“What text?”

“Remind me. Not now.” Harry uses both his hands to shove Zayn onto his back, flipping them in one quick motion.

“Well, what is it?” Zayn asks, firmly taking hold of Harry’s hips. The pit of his stomach burns, the uncomfortable and nagging sensation of his muscles flexing, his need to come already taking its toll.

Harry isn’t looking at him when he says, “I’ll tell you later.” His eyes are screwed shut, his head hung down. Using his knees to steady himself, Harry presses down with all his weight, his thigh muscles flexing as he rides Zayn, hard and fast and without a single care as to what Zayn’s saying.

“You can’t just bring it up and not—” Harry’s hand covers his mouth, blocking Zayn’s words and most of his airways.

“ _Not_ now,” he says with no room for argument, and with his hand still pressed to Zayn’s mouth, he grinds harder, his entire body shaking as he finds the position he was looking for. A sharp, loud whimper works its way out of his throat.

“You close?” Zayn asks as soon as he gets away from Harry’s hand.

A whine is his only response.

They’ve been sleeping together for almost as long as they’ve been friends, so when Harry’s forehead creases, and he starts mumbling a mouthful of profanities, Zayn knows without answer that Harry’s more than just close. His cock is wet and heavy against Zayn’s stomach, and as he grinds down, his hips picking up speed, Zayn grips Harry hard, touching and squeezing him, trying to match the pace already set.

“You gonna come?” he whispers, cupping the back of Harry’s head with his free hand. He pulls him close, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Tell me,” he whispers into Harry’s mouth, voice cracked. His toes are curled, thighs burning as he thrusts up, meeting Harry with as much force as he can.

Harry’s voice is high pitched, hardly his own, when he breathes out a weak, “Yeah.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me?” Having gotten used to how ridiculous he feels when he says these things, Zayn clenches his jaw, loving the way Harry’s breathing turns ragged. “Does it feel good?” he works one arm around Harry’s middle, sweat collecting on his brow.

Harry kisses him, open mouthed and sloppy, his teeth digging into Zayn’s bottom lip. He moans, breathing out soft, little things, muttering how good Zayn’s cock feels, how much he wants to come. He tapers off into whines and whimpers, his vocabulary only expanding to _Yes’s_ and _Oh, God_ 's, and Zayn's heart starts beating a little too fast, all of his muscles tensing at once.

Zayn holds onto the back of Harry’s neck with a firm grip, wondering—for only a second—if his fingers will leave marks on Harry’s skin.

When Harry comes, his entire body trembles right down to his fingertips, his arms clinging mercilessly around Zayn’s neck. Zayn feels the warmth of his come on his stomach, slicking his skin, making him feel dirty. Hooking both arms around Harry in an awkward embrace, Zayn throws him onto his back, his cock still deep inside of him. He fucks into him with shallow, quick thrusts, his thighs cramping instantly, his stomach on fire. He feels Harry’s hand at the back of his head, his fingers wound around a handful of his hair, and when he pulls Zayn’s head back with one hard yank, Zayn comes with a muffled shout, his eyes screwed shut, creating blotches of color behind his lids.

It takes a moment for them to collect their bearings, Zayn getting a clean towel from his closet for Harry to use. His limbs feel weighed down, his head empty. He doesn’t even think he has a brain anymore.

“What did you need to tell me?” he asks some time later. The TV’s turned to some ABC family movie—something edited and cut for television. Harry’s curled into his side, head on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Get my phone.”

He drops one lazy arm off of the bed, blindly searching for Harry’s jeans. “Here,” he hands it over. It’s only a second later that Harry has a text pulled up. He tilts the screen, and Zayn reads out loud, “ _Pride and Prejudice._ ” He groans. “Book report?”

“Yeah, but if you don’t want to do it, it’s okay.” Harry kisses a line over Zayn’s cheekbone to the bridge of his nose. “I’ll tell him you—”

“No, it’s okay.” He puts Harry’s phone on his nightstand. “Who _is_ this guy, though? Should I be concerned?” he’s only teasing, but the small smile on Harry’s face is genuine when he shakes his head, not saying a word. “What, you can’t tell me?”

“He’s just a guy in my gym class.”

Rolling onto his side, Zayn nuzzles his nose to Harry’s cheek. “Is he cute?”

“His name’s Niall.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“He was in our shop class last year.”

Thinking back, Zayn waits for a face to fit the name, and when it finally dawns on him, there’s a hint of real jealousy in his voice when he says, “The blonde one? With the braces?”

“He doesn’t have braces anymore, but yeah that’s him.”

“Oh, my bad,” Zayn teases. “He doesn’t have braces anymore, huh? So, nice, perfect teeth?”

“Stop.”

“How old is he?”

Harry scoffs. “Senior. He has English as his last class of the day. Mr. Hayden, I think he said.”

“Yeah, alright. I know where that is. I’ll find him tomorrow.”

A text comes in on Zayn’s phone and it’s from Waliyha, asking him to come pick her up. She uses proper grammar opposed to her usual shorthand, and it’s a telltale give away that she’s upset about something. Zayn tells Harry he has to go, asking if he wants to tag along, but Harry refuses, saying he has to stop by the bank before they close.

Zayn grabs his jacket off the back of his desk chair and ushers Harry towards the front door.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Zayn asks, eyeing a red mark on Harry’s neck that wasn’t there before. He smirks.

“Yeah, I’ll be here before…” It’s as if the words die in Harry’s throat, his eyes fixed on something that Zayn doesn’t see.

“Before…” Zayn tries to edge him along. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, too suddenly. He smiles tight lipped.

Looking over his shoulder, Zayn focuses on Louis who’s walking across his lawn, hands wringing together.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, eyes darting from Zayn to Harry.

Harry waits a beat, says, “No.” He turns to Zayn. “I’ll be here in the morning.” Moving quickly, he kisses Zayn’s cheek, gives him another false smile and heads to his car without waiting for any kind of response.

“Okay!” Zayn calls after him, feeling lost. “Drive safe!”

Louis doesn’t speak until Harry’s car is gone and out of view. He’s shuffling his feet against the drive, scattering small rocks. “I only wanted to check if you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uh,” Louis laughs and it’s painfully awkward, forced. “The other night. I guess I wanted to apologize more than anything. Mark, he…well, he can be—” Louis motions with his thumb as if Mark—the guy that was laughing, Zayn assumes—is standing right behind him. Zayn has to check to make sure he isn’t. “A little ridiculous.”

“It’s okay.”

“So,” Louis steps closer, hands in his back pockets, looking down the drive. “You and Harry Styles. That’s nice. How’s that going?”

“You know him?” Zayn’s blood runs cold, heart skipping a beat.

“Not personally, no. One of my friends knows him,” he waves a hand, telling Zayn not to sweat it. “How’ve you been, though? You know, I see you at school…quite a bit, actually. Sometimes I think about saying hi, but,” he shrugs. He finally looks to Zayn, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes Zayn’s spine straighten.

“You can say hi to me whenever you want. I’m usually alone, anyway.”

Louis reaches out, his hand touching Zayn’s wrist. He feels like fire, the weight of his fingers tugging at Zayn’s heart. Louis did the thing that Zayn’s never had the guts to do: he broke the barrier. And when he speaks, there’s a change in his tone that tells Zayn that he’s well aware of it.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Are you okay?”

“Well, not rea—”

Zayn starts, gasps as his phone rings, loud and shrill. Pulling it from his pocket, he sees Waliyha’s name plastered across the screen. “Sorry, Lou, I just…” Louis nods as he answers the phone, and the look in his eye is gone; the moment’s passed.

“I’m gonna go,” he rushes out.

“Wait—” but Louis’ already leaving, walking quickly to his own yard, and not stopping when Zayn calls his name.

*

The week flies by at a rate that Zayn hadn’t been expecting. He meets Niall outside of his English class and finishes the paper before Thursday evening. It’s due the following Tuesday, and he figures if he gets back to Niall before the weekend, then he’ll be able to offer any other kind of help that he might need. Zayn also learns upon meeting this Niall that he’s beyond charming, and it’s really no wonder that Harry was so smug about him.

The time that isn’t spent writing a three page report, Zayn uses to find Louis. Which, of course, means he doesn’t. He’s learned long ago that when Louis doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be, and it never crosses his mind to go to Louis’ house. That’s overstepping a boundary that he’s not ready to take on. If he was faced with Louis’ parents and their questions, asking how life is and how school’s going, Zayn thinks he’d actually keel over and die. That’s too much embarrassment for one life.

After class Friday afternoon, he’s outside of the library, talking with Niall. He picks up Niall’s math assignment for the weekend, giving him a kind price of ten bucks (which may or may not be based solely on the fact that when Niall smiles, it’s like the entire world lights up).

“I’ll get it to you on Monday,” Zayn promises. “Text Harry if anything comes up.”

“Will do, man. Thanks for this,” he holds up the report.

“No problem. But hey, do me a favor? Don’t let anyone know what you paid for it all. Just keep it low.”

There’s a smirk on Niall’s face that tells Zayn that he’s just given himself away. Niall now knows he can get the same thing as someone else, but for a cheaper price. Normally, Zayn would take it all back and tell Niall that he was just feeling generous for the time being, but the sight of Louis catches his attention. He’s on his phone, walking quickly from the library to the parking lot.

“Okay?” Zayn says, making sure Niall gets it.

“Yeah, no big deal, man.”

Zayn gives his shoulder a pat, calling out as he hurries by, “Monday! Promise. Hey-hey, Louis!”

Louis slows, turning slightly. “What?”

Stopping, panic starts to rise in Zayn’s chest. Maybe it was only okay to talk if Louis was the one to instigate it. “Uh, hey?”

Louis whispers sternly into his phone, “I’ll be there in a _minute_. Give me a minute, can you do that? Patience.” Then he’s hanging up and giving Zayn his full attention. “Hey, sorry,” he smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Tough day. But yeah, hey. What’s up?”

“You feelin’ alright?”

He nods, shifting his weight from the toes of his shoes to his heels. He looks agitated.

“Yeah, uhm. Well, I just…you know when you stopped by a few days ago, I guess I’ve kind of had that whole thing stuck in my head, you know? Like, you said you needed to talk and…”

Louis doesn’t seem to be listening. He starts when Zayn pauses, waiting for an answer. “What? Oh! The—yeah. Don’t worry about that,” there’s pleading in his voice. “I don’t want to get you involved in my business. It’s not yours to deal with.”

“That’s okay, though,” Zayn takes a bold step forward.

Sputtering, Louis tries to say a million things at once and they all come out in a jumble of vowels and sounds. “I’ve changed my mind,” he manages to spit out. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Zayn stands, confused and utterly embarrassed for thinking any of this was a good idea. He wants to disappear. His gut feels weird, tight, making him want to sit down and never get back up. “You’re sure?” he presses, hating that he can’t seem to stop himself from speaking.

“Zayn, I have to go.”

“Oh,” he moves back instinctively, as if hit. “Okay.”

“I really…appreciate the concern, though. It’s good to know that you still care.”

“Of course, I do.”

Louis’ face does a funny thing, then. His brow creases, his eyes squinted shut. He’s all pinched up, and when they were younger, Zayn would see this face and think Louis was about to yell at him. It’s his thinking face, something he hasn’t outgrown quite yet.

“Thanks,” he breathes out. The phone in his hand vibrates, and he stares down at it, sighing heavily. When he answers it, it’s almost as if Zayn isn’t there at all. “Hey,” he says into the mouth piece. “I’m coming, okay? I—” There’s yelling on the other end. He hangs up. Giving an apologetic smile, Louis lets his arms flop at his sides. “I’ll see you around.”

“Who was that?”

“No one.”

His mouth goes dry, throat feeling strained. “Was it that Mark guy?”

“Zayn.”

“Was it?”

Louis shakes his head, but the lie is evident in his eyes. “I have to go.”

“Yeah…okay.”

Now, Zayn doesn’t like creeping around any more than the next guy, but when Louis tells him goodbye and he walks off with dragging steps and slumped shoulders, Zayn doesn’t like it. And he doesn’t like whoever it was yelling at Louis on the phone, or the change of tone when Louis was talking to them. He doesn’t like any of it. So he follows him—waiting a couple minutes, of course. He isn’t dumb. By the time he finally catches up with Louis, they’re in the backside of the parking lot. Most of the students have filed out, and low and behold, right next to Louis’ car is Mark whats-his-face and he looks angry.

Keeping his back straight and his mind clear, Zayn ducks behind one of the brick pillars that line the edge of the parking lot, showing where the sidewalk ends and where the road begins. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he ignores it. Mark’s yelling something, his voice—as ugly as his laugh—is on edge; he’s practically yelling.

“What happened to ten minutes?” Mark asks.

Louis has his arms crossed, weight on one leg. “Give me my keys.”

“No. Tell me what happened to _ten minutes_.”

“I had some shit to do! It’s not my fault that you _insist_ —” Louis rips his keys out of Mark’s hand, “on taking _my_ car.”

“I’m not the one who offered it in the first place.”

“I offered last week, okay? At some point, _Mark_ , the offer expires.”

Zayn gasps so sharply that his body threatens to cough when Mark reaches out and grips Louis’ forearm in one massive hand. His hold is tight, Zayn can tell by the way Louis’ skin pales around Mark’s hand, his own knuckles gone white.

“What did you say?” Mark asks, face only inches from Louis’.

“Let go of me.”

“I asked you a question.”

Louis yanks at his arm. “Let _go_ —”

Mark grabs Louis’ jaw with one hand, thumb digging into one side of Louis’ face, index finger on the other. It happens so quickly, Zayn doesn’t even realize what’s going through his own mind. All he can really see is the sun—bright and white and powerful—and the brick pillar that’s long gone behind him now. He’s walking with steady, deliberate steps, his eyes narrowed, chin tipped down. He knows Louis sees him, can even hear Louis shout his name and tell him to stop before he’s even begun. He thinks, had Louis waited until Zayn really got heated and start throwing punches to demand him to knock it off, he may have. Just maybe. But there’s no help for it now.

Mark has barely turned around when Zayn clips him in the jaw with one boney knuckle. There’s a loud _crack_ and a thud as Mark hits the pavement. Moving fast, and avoiding Louis’ hands pulling at his jacket, Zayn straddles Mike’s waist, fist connecting with the side of his mouth. There’s blood, there’s spit. He’s making a mess of Mark and it feels _good_.

“ _Zayn_ —” Louis yelps, grabbing insistently at his arms. “Stop, please—Zayn, just _stop!_ ” His mouth is only inches from Zayn’s ear, his breath ghosting along his skin. It sends shivers up his spine, his hands fidgeting.

Still sitting on Mark, Zayn looks down at what he’s done, his heart pounding in his ears. He turns to Louis, sees the fear on his face and wants to cry. He put that fear there.

“I’m sor—” is all he gets out before a pain blossoms in his face, Mark having hit him. He teeters on his knees, one hand hitting the ground, leaving blood on the concrete. He tries to get to his feet, tries to roll out of Mark’s reach, but there are heavy hands on his throat, pushing down and blocking out his air. He hears a shrill “ _Don’t fucking touch him,_ ” and the weight releases. Gasping, he does all he can think of doing, and knees Mark in the stomach, scrambling to his feet, holding his jaw where Mark had gotten him. He can taste blood in his mouth.

Louis moves quickly, throwing himself between the two of them, his back pressed to Zayn’s front, hands behind him, gripping the front of Zayn’s shirt.

“Stop,” he warns sternly. He’s talking to Mark. “It’s done, okay? Don’t do anything—” then he points in Mark’s face as if scolding a dog. “Don’t touch him again.”

Zayn thinks had he not been focused on the look in Mark’s eye, the way he stared at Louis like he was a nuisance, ready to get rid of him, he might feel pride at the way Louis defends him.

“You should keep an eye on your friends,” Mark spits out, caressing his jaw. He shifts his gaze to Zayn. “You hear me? What do you think you’re doing? None of this involves _you_.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Louis moves to block Zayn from Mark’s sight. “You keep egging him on like that and you won’t like what he does.”  
  
“Is that a threat?”

“No. Fact.”

Zayn’s hardly listening now. He doesn’t care about Mark anymore, all he cares about is what he’s done, the mistake he made. Poor judgment, he thinks. But what else was he supposed to do?

Mark scoffs, stepping closer, causing Louis to press harder into Zayn. “You think I can’t take this guy on? That it?”

“I don’t give a shit whether you can or you can’t. Either way, you’re not going to—” he turns to Zayn. “Get in the car.”

“What?” Mark snaps. “Who are you—”

Louis says again, this time with enough force to make Zayn take a step back, “Get in the _car_.”

Feeling like a shunned animal, Zayn scuffles to the car, the bottom of his shoes dragging against the ground. His knuckles hurt, his wrists ache; it makes hard to open the door. He hears Louis say,

“Go home.”

Mark shouts, “How am I supposed to do _that_?”

“I don’t care. Just go.”

He shuts the car door, blocking out the world. When he looks down at his hands, his eyes mist over. He feels like he’s gonna be sick.

( _You have blood on your hands_ )

He wants to go home.

( _I think it’s from his nose_ )

Louis slips in behind the wheel, his keys jingling loudly in the silence. The car smells strongly of cologne, and CD cases litter the ground. Zayn lifts his boot off a Smith’s album.

“What were you _thinking_?” Louis asks. “Why would you do that?”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to think anymore. He whispers out the first thing that comes to mind, feeling weak and fragile, “He was hurting you.”

Louis goes silent, eyes burning holes into the side of Zayn’s face. He dares not look at Louis, not yet. His fingers are twitching in his lap, the pain amplifying.

“Let me see what he did,” Louis says, gingerly touching the unharmed side of Zayn’s face. He tips his chin, taking in everything he sees. Zayn isn’t sure what he looks like, but the blood is more prominent in his mouth, making him want to gag.

“Does it hurt?” Louis asks.

Zayn shakes his head.

“Let’s go wash you up.” He pulls his hand away, starting the engine.

All at once, without warning, Zayn’s eyes fill with tears, guilt nestling deep inside of him. He’d cover his face if it wasn’t for the blood. All he can do it sob, gasping for air. When Louis turns to him with wide eyes, his mouth opened in shock, it makes Zayn feel worse. He chokes out, loud and half hysterical, “ _I’m sorry_.”

Louis’ on him at once, hands on his jaw, making Zayn look him in the eye. “I’m not mad,” he promises. “I’m not, okay? You’re okay. Don’t—” he moves closer. Zayn isn’t sure if he’s trying to hug him. “I just want to clean you up. Okay? That’s it. I’m not mad.”

Zayn’s still crying, but he nods, desperate to get out of Louis’ grasp.

“We’ll go to my house, okay?”

The ride is long and painful. Louis puts on the radio, turning the volume up nearly all the way, which helps at least a little bit. If only the guy blasting from the speakers wasn't singing about sad shit. Zayn tries not to scratch at his hands, the blood now drying and turning black. He doesn’t like having the evidence on his body. Luckily for him, though, as soon as he’s out of the car, Louis’ dragging him inside before Zayn’s parents can get a good look at him, and then he’s sitting Zayn down at the kitchen table and wetting a wash cloth.

“Stop moving,” Louis says as the warm cloth touches Zayn’s hand, making his arm twitch. Wiping the darkened blood away, Zayn can see his skin is bruised and purple, the veins standing out loudly. “It’s not too bad,” he lies.

“Does he do that a lot?” Zayn asks, softly. The question is bold, his facade is weak. His eyes itch from the tears. When Louis doesn’t say anything, Zayn inches closer, ignoring the way Louis’ fingers caress his hand. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Let’s not bring that up right now.”

“Is it?”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek.

“Why didn’t you?” Zayn asks. His voice is growing louder, his anger returning. “Why didn’t you tell me after you already brought it up? You acted like it was no big deal. And you’re just letting this guy get away with that?”

“ _This_ ,” Louis holds up Zayn’s hand, “is why I thought better of it all. I didn’t want to bring you into this. You have Harry now. What would he think if you’re over here—”

“What does Harry have to do with any of this?”

Setting Zayn’s hand down, Louis grabs the medical tape and gauze, wrapping it around his knuckles. “You can’t just beat people up,” he says, unfazed. He’s putting the first aid supplies back into the plastic bin they came out of, not looking toward Zayn. “You can’t go around and just hit people like that.”

“I don’t.”

Louis narrows his eyes, mouth pinched shut.

“I _don’t—_ ” Zayn says again, hiding from Louis’ eyes. “It’s just…it’s when it comes to you. I can’t help it.”

“Well, that doesn’t make the situation better.” He sighs loudly, his fingers steepled, elbows resting on the table. “This isn’t good, Zayn. This is bad—very, _very_ bad. And not just what you did to Mark, but—” he motions between them. “ _This_. It’s all bad.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s not healthy.”

The words don’t process, Zayn’s brain shutting them out quickly. It’s hard to breathe. He gets to his feet, not caring when Louis follows him.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Zayn, wait.”

He doesn’t. The front door is ahead of him, his feet carrying him blindly towards it. Louis’ hand grabs at his arm, but he shakes it off. “Who told you that?” he fires over his shoulder, stopping Louis dead in his tracks. “Who told you this was unhealthy?”

“Why does it have to be someone else’s words?”

“Because the Louis I know wouldn’t _say that_. Is that why you left, huh? Because someone said it was _unhealthy?”_

Looking at his own feet, Louis stays quiet. The silence speaks volumes, and it all hits Zayn square in the face. He’s afraid of the marks on his hands, afraid of the way his stomach turns when he thinks about Mark—about everything. He’s out the door and treading through the lawn, wanting to get home as soon as he can. Louis’ on his heels in an instant, tugging at the back of his jacket.

“Can we talk about this?” he asks.

“About _what_?” Zayn snaps. He’s never been mad at Louis before and he’s never raised his voice at him, so it’s no surprise when Louis recoils. “I don’t have anything to say,” he whispers, biting back all the anger that’s built up in his mouth, sitting on the back of his tongue.

He’s crossing the fence, the smell of wood strong as the wind blows. He isn’t more than halfway across his drive when Louis all but shouts, his voice quivering,

“I’m sorry, okay?”

Zayn stops. “Sorry for _what_?” When he looks back, Louis makes no show of speaking again. “Can you do that for me? Can you please just acknowledge what it was you did?”

“I—”

“You _left_ , Louis. You _left me_ without so much as an explanation. Not even a goodbye! You had me in the palm of your hand and you threw me out.”

“Can we please go back inside and talk about this?”

“No. I don’t—” Zayn keeps walking—tries not to run—and as his hand wraps around the doorknob of his front door, he feels worse. And when it shuts behind him, his back resting against it, he has to stifle the yell in his throat.

Waliyha’s standing in the hallway, her eyes wide. She’s staring at him, at his hands.

“What happened?” and she all but rushes to him, her hands ready to take his.

“Don’t tell mom,” is all he says. “Please, don’t tell mom.”

She’s quiet for a moment, taking it all in, looking him up and down and seeing the water in his eyes. She nods.

It’s pure instinct when he grabs her in a hug, holding her close, kissing her forehead. He mumbles, “Thanks,” and releases her just as quickly.

“Are you okay?”

He only shrugs, walking swiftly to the bathroom. His dad’s voice echoes from the living room as a referee’s whistle blows. He’s watching football, completely engrossed. He doesn’t even notice when Zayn tiptoes by him, slipping into the bathroom.

*

Harry sees his hand the next morning before class. The knuckles are bruised and swollen, green shining through the purple along Zayn’s skin. It looks a lot worse than it feels, but it still feels terrible. Zayn makes sure not to mention it.

“What happened?” he asks.

Zayn says, “Nothing,” and sighs, relieved when Harry lets it go.

For the most part, it’s a normal week. Zayn returns a book report, buys a gram from Aiden, and spends most of his time locked in his garage, smoking bowl after bowl and staring angrily at the garage door. At one point, he sits with one joint smoked, another rolled, and the garage opener in his hand. He’s clicking the button over and over, watching the door go up—checking Louis’ drive to see if he’s home—and then letting it fall shut. He keeps this up until his dad pokes his head in and asks him to knock his shit off.

Each night he’s plagued with memories: moments that he had had the luxury of forgetting. They’re haunting him, he’s sure of it. Some kind of bad karma or omen that he blindly walked right into. It’s not his fault that Louis’ a memorable person, or that he seems to be everywhere Zayn looks in school, or that Zayn ends up dreaming about him three nights out of four.

By Friday, Zayn’s sure that he’s going to wind up dying of some kind of stroke if he doesn’t get out of the house. Taking his jacket and leaving the pot, he walks swiftly—almost running—the three blocks to Harry’s house. When he arrives, his mom answers the door and tells Zayn that Harry hasn’t gotten off work yet, but he’s more than welcome to wait for him.

Turning away the tea Harry’s mom offers and saying that he’s going to wait in Harry’s room, Zayn climbs the steep stairs to the second floor.

Harry’s room is a nice, homey place. There’s grey carpet and white walls, scattered with posters of The Stones and Zeppelin. The sheets on his bed are white, the blankets left mussed from the last time they were used. Lying down with his face in the pillows, Zayn inhales Harry’s cologne, his chest beginning to feel tight. When he sniffs again, he thinks of how he’d gotten the same cologne for Harry last Christmas, and how Harry had loved it enough to spray his entire closet with it. He’d have drowned in it if Zayn hadn’t told him to stop.

Rolling onto his back, Zayn stares up at the ceiling—which is covered in posters, as well. The Beastie Boys are staring back at him, pointing their fingers as if accusing him of something. Zayn scoffs, delving into his pocket. He pulls out his key chain, the one with Louis’ bracelet on it, and touches it gently. Some of the beads are cracked, the string wearing down. The knot keeping the bracelet together is frayed and grey—no longer the bright white it once was. Zayn takes the bracelet off of his chain, and with a deep breath, he slips it over his hand. It doesn’t get past his knuckles, his hand now much wider and bonier than it was when he was seven. He stares at it, wrapped around his hand. It doesn’t fit. He didn’t expect it to. But to see it against his skin, the same beads that were there over a decade ago—beads that Louis cried over because he thought they were broken and lost one summer. They were important to him, important to Zayn.

With his jaw clenched, Zayn forces the bracelet over his knuckles. Inching it over his hand, he’s determined to get it on his wrist. Pointing his fingers and making his hand as thin as it can be, he gives the bracelet one final yank and to his surprise, it slips over his hand and to his wrist. Having stretched out, it now has room to slide up and down his wrist—but just barely. It’s stuck there, he knows it. The only way to get it off would be to cut it, and he wouldn’t ever do that. No, it’s there for as long as it lasts.

His mouth pinches up as it becomes harder to breathe, his eyes starting to itch. His vision distorts, the beads seeming to melt into one another, becoming a giant blur of color as tears well. Sensitive, his mother had always called him growing up. Sensitive and angry.

“Okay,” he says to the beads. “Okay, we’ll talk it out.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Zayn starts, slapping a hand against his face to hide his tears. He peeks through his fingers. Harry’s standing in the doorway, his uniform on, visor in hand. He looks amused, concerned.

“No one,” Zayn says, sitting up quickly. He gives himself a head rush, cradling his face in his hands instantly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” Harry makes his way to the bed, throwing his visor on his dresser. “You look tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You never just show up,” Harry says. He sits next to Zayn, shoulders pressed snug together.

Zayn’s careful not to make eye contact; careful to keep his emotions tucked neatly inside of him until the time is right. He wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, nuzzles his nose to the side of his face. “French fries,” he mumbles, pained. There’s no cheer in his voice, and Harry catches on quickly.

“What’s going on?” he asks, tilting his body towards Zayn, moving closer.

“I didn’t come here to talk about problems, Haz.”

“No, but it looks like you need to.”

“I can’t.”

Harry’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s undoubtedly offended when he asks, “Why is that?”

Zayn can only shrug, bunching his shoulders up around his ears, not letting them fall until Harry asks again,

“Just why not? Did I do something?”

Zayn all but shouts, “No! No. You didn’t do anything.”

“Then, what is it?” Harry’s voice drops down to a whisper, his hand drawing circles on Zayn’s thigh. “If you can’t talk to me about it, then who can you?”

“It’s just that…”

Silence.

“I can’t tell you.”

Harry stiffens. “Why not?”

Weak, scared, Zayn says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The atmosphere seems to change, Zayn thinks it might be all in his head, but Harry sounds hurt, angry. He’s half expecting him to tell Zayn off, but it’s worse than that—so much worse.

“It’s about _him_ , isn’t it?”

Zayn turns his face away, not wanting to be in Harry’s room anymore. “I’m gonna go,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Let what go?”

“Louis. Everything?”

“All we’re doing is hanging out, okay?”

“And that’s why you’re upset?” There’s an edge to Harry’s voice, making matters that much worse. “And since when have you been _hanging out_?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to talk to _me_ about it.”

Zayn rubs at his neck, looks to the door.

“What, you’re gonna go talk to him about it?”

“Harry.”

“What happened to your hand?”  
  
Zayn instinctively makes a fist, grimacing when the tendons pull too tightly beneath his bruise. “I told you.”

“No. You said it was nothing.”

“It _is_ nothing.”

“Something else you can’t talk to me about?”

There’s a voice nagging at the back of Zayn’s mind, telling him just to come clean. But there’s no way that he can without Harry taking it all the wrong way. Hitting Mark is something a jealous ex-boyfriend would do, and it’s how Harry would interpret it. More mess; more trouble. Staying quiet probably isn’t the best thing to do, but it’s the only option Zayn has.

“Why,” Harry begins, standing and crowding around him, “does your life revolve so much around someone who doesn’t _care_?”

Something snaps, and Zayn shouts, “He fucking cares, okay?” He hates the way Harry’s eyes dull, clouding over.

He lets his arms unfold, hanging at his sides. “Then why don’t you go to him instead?”

“Don’t say that,” and Zayn cups Harry’s jaw, wanting to take back the last month and a half. He wants to go back to what he had with him, what everything was before Louis. After Louis. Zayn stills, eyes on his bracelet. Louis was always there, Louis will always _be_ there. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, dropping his hands. “This isn’t how shit was supposed to happen.”

“Why?”

“Because he made me mad.”

“Louis?”

“No.”

Harry sighs, taking a step back. He says nothing, his eyes drilling into the carpet. Shuffling his feet, he waits for some kind of answer from Zayn that Zayn doesn’t have.

“I’m just gonna go,” he eventually says. His ears are ringing, his hand hurts.

“If you do, don’t come back until you sort all of this out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not gonna be your consolation prize, Zayn. It’s not fair to me.”

Zayn’s prepared to say, _you’re not_ , but it’s a lie. Harry’s always right, and he’s right about this and Zayn hates it.

“Okay,” is all he can manage to say.

Harry doesn’t stop him when he leaves, he doesn’t call him when he’s gone asking for him to come back. He stands there, stock-still in the middle of his room, with a look on his face that makes Zayn’s heart hurt. He runs down the drive, down the sidewalk, away from Harry’s house and the pain that he’s caused.

He doesn’t stop running when he reaches the front door, padding through the halls and ignoring his sister who’s sat at the dining room table, hovering over texts books. He shuts himself in his room, locking the door—something he doesn’t think he’s ever done—and flings himself onto his bed. Flipping over and fisting his hair, Zayn growls at the ceiling, willing it to cave in and crush him.

He falls asleep curled in on himself, not even aware that he’s sleeping in the first place. His boots are still on, his shirt dampened with sweat. He wakes to a soft whistling—the wind. It must be raining, he thinks. With a headache from hell and a foul attitude, Zayn sits himself up, untying his shoes and throwing them rather forcefully to the other side of the room. It’s then that he realizes that he’s never once heard the wind blowing from inside his room. The walls are thick, the window glass even thicker—there’s just absolutely no way that he’d—

“ _Fuck._ ”

Zayn tenses, eyes narrowed, squinting towards the window. It wasn’t him who spoke, and there’s no one else in the room. His heart picks up, beating against his ribs, making his chest tighten. The window’s opened but only the slightest bit. He waits, unable to calm his mind. His palms are sweating, his stomach tightening as if he’s going to puke, and just as he gets the courage to stand on his own two legs, the window slides all the way open, the metal making a horrible screeching sound.

Then there’s a leg hoisted over the pane, a hand clawing at the wall. And with just one blink, they’re both gone, a dull _thud_ sounding from outside.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ—”

Zayn stands, walking slowly. “Louis?” he whispers.

The leg appears again along with the hand. Louis finally comes into the light, his hair tousled, the collar of his sweater off kilter. “I’ve gotten a lot bigger than I thought,” he says, working his way through the window. “And it’s all in my thighs, you know that? Such bullshit.”

“What are you _doing_?”

He stands upright, fixing his clothes. The blinds are all fucked up when he reaches back and shuts the window. “I can’t believe you still don’t lock this thing. You should be careful,” he wanders around the room, touching Zayn’s desk. “You could get an intruder someday.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No,” Louis says, nonchalantly. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands hidden in his sweater sleeves.

The room is dark, Louis’ silhouette is the only thing Zayn can see, but when he reaches for the lights, he gets a stern,

“Don’t.”

He lets his hand fall to his side. “What are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to say hi. You’ve been ignoring me at school. Had to get your attention somehow.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“You think I don’t know when you hear me? You do that thing—” he bunches his shoulders up, tucking his head down, “when you’re trying to hide. It’s very obvious.”

Zayn’s thankful the light isn’t on as his cheeks warm, his face growing hot all over. He walks cautiously, sitting down next to Louis. The bed dips under their weight, his feet bracing against the carpet. “You wanted to say hi this badly?”

“I don’t have your number.”

With Louis’ shoulder pressed to his, Zayn can feel that he’s shaking, his hands gripping the cuffs of his sweater, the outline of his knuckles showing against the fabric.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice lowered. He isn’t sure if he’s dreaming or if Louis really is right next to him. He’s been waiting for this day for the past four years, and for it to honest to God happen—it’s just not plausible.

“No.”

“What happened?” Alarm sets in, Zayn suddenly too aware of the feeble quiver in Louis’ voice.

Louis’ whispering almost too softly to hear when he says, “Don’t freak out, okay?”

Zayn waits patiently, his legs starting to tremble under his weight. Louis turns his face, eyes lowered, and tips his chin up. Stripes of moonlight cast along his skin, making his face glow pale. Zayn hooks a finger under Louis’ jaw, turning his face farther to the side, trying to see what it is he’s showing him.

Louis inhales gently, his breath only a whisper when Zayn’s eyes find what they’re looking for. Across Louis’ cheekbone is a deep purple bruise—almost blackened by the light. Touching with shaking fingers, Zayn runs the pads of his fingertips along Louis’ face, feeling where the skin is raised and where it’s been split.

“Louis…”

“Guess who,” he singsongs, scoffing.

Anger’s radiating through Zayn’s chest, his jaw clenched painfully so. He feels the urge to cry, old memories flooding back, thoughts of Louis sitting under the tree with his knees pulled to his chest.

“What happened?”

“He came to my work,” Louis says, taking Zayn’s hand with his own and pulling it away from his face. He links their fingers together. Zayn can’t help but stare at the way they fit so perfectly. “He said he wanted to talk about what happened.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

He shakes his head. “I went with him to his house. God—” he laughs dryly. “That was a major mistake. He started yelling and being completely ridiculous—I didn’t know what to do.”

“Why did he hit you?”

“I tried to leave.”

Zayn’s fingers tighten around Louis’ hand, his throat swelling shut.

“I guess, in all honestly, I egged him on.” Louis’ chin is tucked to his chest, the top of his head the only thing Zayn has to look at. “He talked badly about you and I, uh,” he shrugs. “I didn’t like it. So I pushed him.”

“A push is different from a punch,” Zayn says, desperately trying to keep his voice leveled.

“It’s over with. It’s fine.”

“Lou—”

“It’s okay,” and he leans in, the side of his face pressed to Zayn’s shoulders. His arms are tucked against his chest, his shoulders feeling lithe and frail as Zayn wraps an arm around them. It’s a long time before Louis whispers, “Can I stay?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

“Can we watch a movie?”

“Right now?”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

Zayn nods, running a hand through Louis’ hair. With his chin rested to the top of Louis’ head, both arms around him, he feels safe, hoping Louis does, too. “What do you want to watch?”

“Something happy.”

“Give me a title.”

Louis shrugs, tucking his face farther into Zayn’s neck. “Surprise me,” he whispers, breath ghosting against Zayn’s skin. It sends shivers up his spine.

“Can I turn the light on?”

“No.”

Nodding, Zayn lets Louis go. He opens his movie cabinet, revealing his hundred-and-something titles. Scanning the shelves, he strains with the moonlight to see the spines of the cases. There’s a rustling behind him, the jingle of a belt buckle. Nerves settle low in his stomach as he grabs the first happy movie he sees.

He shields the side of his face from Louis as he moves to the TV, making quick work of the DVD player.

“Don’t act like it’s something you haven’t seen before,” Louis says when Zayn continues to avoid him. “If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll put my pants back on.”

“No,” Zayn says, crawling on the bed and catching sight of Louis’ bare legs. He’s sat in his sweater and boxer-briefs, the glow of the television showering him in blue. “It’s fine.”

“What’d you put in?”

Zayn hands him the movie case.

“ _Up_? I said _happy_!”

“It _is_ happy. It’s a goddamn Disney movie.”

“This is the most depressing film ever made, you idiot.”

Zayn laughs, snatching the case back. “Shut up, it’s good.” He throws it on the floor, fluffing his pillows and setting them side by side. One for him, one for Louis. But when he lies back, Louis gravitates to him, as if pulled by a string. He nestles into Zayn’s side, head on his chest. It’s pure habit when Zayn holds him close.

As the movie plays, Zayn watches, thinking idly about Mark and how he’d love to bash his face in. His thoughts are deterred when the two children on the screen fast forward to adulthood. It’s their wedding day, and the entirety of the film comes back to Zayn, his heart sinking to his gut. Maybe it _wasn’t_ the best one to pick.

“That’s going to be us. Isn’t it?” Louis asks.

Zayn finds it’s hard to swallow. “I would hope so.”

“Who would I be?”

“Ellie.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Look at her,” Zayn points to the screen. “She’s full of life, just like you.”

“And you’re going to end up being that grouchy old man who doesn’t like children, huh?”

Zayn snorts, pressing his mouth to the back of his hand. “Possibly.”

The conversation dies when the couple on screen grow old, the inevitable death drawing nearer. Zayn _really_ regrets choosing this fucking movie.

Louis stiffens in his arms, relaxes when the scene is changed.

“It was him,” he says quietly. “Mark. He said it was unhealthy.”

“You’ve been with him for _that_ long?”

“No. Just friends up until last year. And by the time I realized that everything he had said was all bullshit, it was too late.”

“It was never too late, Louis.”

“I’d see you in the halls and you were always with Harry. Everyone knew who you were, and I always thought that I didn’t fit in the picture anymore.”

“All you had to do was say hello.”

“I know that now,” he looks up through his hair, his eyes deeper in color. “I was scared of what you’d say. I imagined you telling me to fuck off. I can’t handle rejection, you know that. You seemed so different from how I remembered you.” He pulls himself up on his elbows, body leaning against Zayn’s. “You had your cool friends and your cool hair. You’d always smoke behind the math building—I saw you one time.”

“Spying on me, were you?” Zayn smiles, brushing the hair out of Louis’ eyes.

Laughing softly, Louis asks, “Do you know how bad it got? Sometimes I’d see you outside, you know, mowing the lawn. And I’d just fucking sit there and watch you do it. I’d think up a ton of lame excuses to come talk to you. I think I had a million different ones, but I never used them.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you were a different person. You didn’t seem the same, and you are aware that, according to society, you’re a little out of my league.”

“ _Yours_?” Zayn can’t stop himself from laughing. “Are you _joking_? You’re the guy who’s friends with everyone. You hang out with the football team! They only talk to me when they need an assignment done, okay? You’re definitely the cool one out of the both of us.”

“Cool, maybe. But you’re the bad boy that everyone wants to sleep with.”

Zayn scoffs.

“I never really thought that you’d be exactly the same as before. You still collect comic books, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. Who do you think I am?”

“And you watch the monster movie bash every October, yeah?”

“Every single year. Haven’t missed one yet.”

“Me, too.”

Zayn’s heart skips a beat, his smile fading away. He imagines Louis hidden in his room, Zayn in his own, doing the same things at the same times but never doing them together.

“I hate that I’ve missed four years of your life,” Louis says, voice cracking. “Knowing that I missed things that I’ll never be able to go through with you,” he’s breathing heavily, words flowing out in quick sentences that Zayn can hardly catch. “And when I heard that you were dating Harry, I was so angry. I’ve never been so mad about something in my entire life and I told myself that I shouldn’t care—I had no _reason_ to care—”

“Calm down,” Zayn whispers, rubbing circles against Louis’ back. “Deep breath.”

Louis inhales, holds it, exhales. “I tried to hate you. For the longest time, I tried so hard.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Not even for a second.”

Zayn smiles, it’s small and sad and he wishes he had known all this before.

“I’m just… _truly_ sorry.” Louis puts his face to Zayn’s chest, voice muffled. “So fucking sorry.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Zayn can feel wet spots left on his shirt from Louis’ eyes. “It’s okay now. Everything’s okay.”

“But it’s _not_.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?”

“No,” he moans, miserably. He sniffs, wiping at his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Zayn tries to sit up, but Louis’ weight refuses to let him move. “I promise you. Don’t cry, okay? I don’t like when you do that.”

“But I’m _sad_ ,” Louis wails into Zayn’s shirt.

“Good to know you’re still ridiculously dramatic.”

“Shut _up_.”

“Come on,” he tugs at Louis’ lifeless arms, laughing when Louis makes no effort to help him. “Come _here_ —” Zayn works both arms around his middle and pulls Louis to his chest, their heads on the same pillow, noses only inches apart.

“I love you,” Louis says.

Zayn smiles, feeling as if no time has passed at all. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” He presses his fingertips to Zayn’s mouth, voice soft. “I _love_ you.”

Zayn doesn’t move, breath caught in his throat. He’s searching Louis’ face, but finding no trace of a joke. He doesn’t know what to say.

Louis rolls onto his back, attention focused back on the movie. He doesn’t say another word; doesn’t make a single sound for the rest of the night, and when he falls asleep—long before Zayn—he’s lying on his side, legs tangled together, breathing soft puffs of air against Zayn’s cheek.

*

Louis’ up first in the morning, changing out of his sweater and taking one of Zayn’s T-shirts. He leaves his clothes on the edge of the bed, shaking Zayn awake.

“I’m gonna go,” he whispers. “Can I stop by tonight?”

Zayn’s groggy and discombobulated, the entire room feeling too bright. “Why are you asking?” he grumbles, face still in the pillow.

“Just to make sure.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“Alright, fine,” Louis leans in, kissing Zayn’s temple, making his back straighten, his body jerk. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Zayn watches through half lidded eyes as Louis crawls back out the window, only getting stuck once before falling flat on the grass.

He spends the better half of his day moping around in his room, staring idly at his wall or flipping through books he’s already read. He’s looking at the cover of _Battle Royale_ , tapping his nails against the spine, wondering just what it is he’s supposed to do now. He’s positive that Louis’ lips left some kind of trace behind, and if he sees Harry now…he’ll know. He’ll just _know_ because he’s Harry and nothing gets by him.

Guilt is eating away at him, starting from the very core of his body and working its way out. Technically, he didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t kiss Louis, didn’t touch him in any way besides what was natural. His hands are clean—which only makes it that much more confusing. He might as well have slept with Louis with how horrible he feels.

He doesn’t get the courage to go to Harry’s until night fall, the sky clouded over, the moon nowhere in sight. He walks slowly, buying himself time. Harry’s only three blocks away, but he makes it last almost an hour, and when he arrives, Harry’s car is in the driveway—either he didn’t work, and Zayn hadn’t known, or he’s already home. Either way, there’s a distance that’s too apparent, already forming as Zayn climbs the steps to the front porch.

Ringing the doorbell, he pats at his shirt. Harry’s mom answers, her smile bright and friendly.

“Want something to drink, sweetie?” she asks as Zayn follows her into the kitchen.

“Not right now, but thanks. Is Harry…”

“In his room,” she points to the stairs even though Zayn’s been there hundreds of times before.

Thanking her again, he makes his way up, feeling like he’s walking to his death. He can hear the soft whispers of muted music through the door, and when he knocks, he raps his knuckles hard enough against the frame to make them ache.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, the door not yet opened. Once he sees it’s Zayn, his disposition changes, his eyes squinting, brows creased.

“Can we, uh,” Zayn clears his throat. “Talk?”

Harry lets him in, closing the door and twisting the lock.

“I know you said not to come until I’ve sorted everything out, but that could take…a long time, and I figured that coming now would be better than not coming at all.”

“What do you mean?”

Zayn’s throat itches, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, making his shirt stick to him. “There isn’t an easy way to say it, Haz.”

Harry searches his face, eyes going wide.

Stumbling over his words, Zayn mumbles, “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Wait, what?” He steps closer, a timid hand touching the front of Zayn’s shirt.

“You said it yourself, you know? It’s not fair to you.”

Sputtering out a laugh that is everything but genuine, Harry shakes his head. “I said that thinking you’d choose _me_ ,” his fingers wrap around the fabric. “You weren’t supposed to go to him.” Tears rest in the rim of his eyes, the whites turning red. “I thought you’d see what I meant and you’d just…”

Zayn’s heart aches as Harry whines, his hand pulling away from Zayn as if burned.

“You’re going back to him?”

He says nothing, nodding his head slowly.

“Why him? Huh? Why him and not me?”

“Harry.”

“I was _there for you_ , Zayn. I was the one who—he fucking—”

“Don’t get upset,” Zayn rushes out, pleadingly. He takes Harry in his arms, feeling the way his fingernails dig into the back of his shirt. “It’s not you—”

“It’s not you, it’s me, right?” Harry says with a cracked voice. “That’s not _fair_.”

“That’s why we have to stop, okay? Maybe we could…you know, we could be—”

“Don’t say friends. I swear to God, Zayn,” he shoves away from his hold. “I don’t want to be your _friend_.”

“You’re just…you’re upset—”

“No! Because we were never just _friends_. You may think that just because you didn’t call me your boyfriend, doesn’t mean what we had was some fucking normal relationship. I don’t even know what _normal_ means when it comes to you.”

“If we give it time. Maybe?”

Harry hides behind his hair, head ducked down.

“I’m not the only person out there, Harry. You…you’re a great guy. You’ll find someone—”

“Surprisingly, Zayn,” there’s an edge to his voice that makes Zayn’s heart sink. “You’re really bad at comforting people. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe you’re really great with _him_.”

“Come on, don’t say that.”

He nearly shouts, “I can say whatever I goddamn please! You think that it’s okay to do this? To fucking—we were fine a few days ago.”

“No, we weren’t.”

“Well, that’s news to _me._ ”

“I mean, _I_ wasn’t, okay? We were, yeah. But not me.”

“You just don’t love me,” he whispers. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Zayn grips Harry’s hips, hugging him tightly. With one hand at the back of Harry’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, Zayn shushes him as he cries, wondering why it has to be this way. Why nothing good comes from loving another person.

Harry mumbles, “I want you to go,” but his hands are still holding onto Zayn’s shoulders, his face still buried into his shirt.

“Can we talk later?” he asks, feeling Harry shake his head. “When you’re ready, then?”

Silence.

Desperately, Zayn holds Harry tighter—hard enough to make him gasp; crushing the air out of him. There’s a pressure in his gut that tells him it’s going to be the last time he gets a chance to do this. Maybe even the last time he sees Harry altogether. It’s a terrifying thought that leaves Zayn feeling breathless, drowning. “I’m sorry.”

Harry, still holding on, leans back, a hand pressing to the side of Zayn’s jaw. They lock eyes, Zayn not wanting to see the pain reflected in Harry’s. He thinks it shouldn’t be surprising what Harry does then, but it still makes his fingers twitch, his heart hammering in his chest. Harry leans in, pressing his mouth to the corner of Zayn’s, and it’s unclear if he’s expecting Zayn to kiss back. All he’s doing is keeping his mouth there—it’s more of a touch than anything, and it makes Zayn’s throat close up, his mouth pinched. He doesn’t kiss Harry, doesn’t make an effort to, but he leans against him, fisting the back of his shirt, certain that if he didn’t have a hold on him, his knees would give out.

Pressing his forehead to Zayn’s cheek, Harry breathes deeply, his hands coming back to his sides.

Zayn doesn’t speak as he kisses his temple, stiff and quick, taking steady steps away from him. He’s half expecting Harry to tell him to stay, but is relieved when he heads for the door, unlocking it quietly, not hearing a single sound of protest come from him.

“When you’re ready,” Zayn says, quietly, “I’ll be here.”

“And if that never happens?” Harry’s not facing him, his body turned at a slant, face hidden.

“I’ll still be here.”

“Just do me a favor.”

Zayn stands with the door open, cheek resting against the frame.

“Don’t act like this was nothing.”

Not knowing what to do, Zayn nods, afraid that if he speaks, his voice will fail him. With one final look and a smile that he wishes could say everything he can’t, he lets Harry’s door shut behind him, taking the stairs two at a time and slipping through the front door undetected.

*

He’s back in his garage forty minutes later—chain smoking cigarettes and staring idly at a painting—when he hears a soft,

“Knock, knock.”

He doesn’t have to look towards the entrance to know it’s Louis. “Hey.”

Louis walks carefully around Zayn’s paints and projects, coming up behind him and resting his chin to Zayn’s shoulder.

“I talked to Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“I think he’s gone. For good.”

Louis’ arms wrap around Zayn’s middle, his mouth pressed to his shirt, voice muffled when he asks, “Are you sad?”

Zayn strains, “Yeah.” Louis keeps quiet, nuzzling the side of Zayn’s neck, his arms a comforting weight around him. Zayn tips his head back, thinking aloud, “Why isn’t there a way that everything could just work out? I didn’t want to hurt him, you know? I never had those intentions. And he’s gone through so much shit for me,” he shrugs, feeling weak. “I feel like a bad friend.”

“You’re not a bad friend,” Louis says, touching Zayn’s chin.

“I was to him.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

Scoffing, Zayn asks, “Then who do I blame?” He turns in Louis’ arms, forehead’s pressed together.

“Do you want to be alone?” Louis asks.

“Not really. I think I’ll end up jumping out a window or something.”

“Well,” he snorts. “Jumping out of yours won’t do you much harm. Except,” he raises his arm, showing Zayn his wrist. There’s a shallow cut on his skin, red and agitated. “You might get a scrape or two.”

Zayn takes Louis’ hand, moving without thought. He brings his wrist to his mouth, kissing the cut gently. Trailing his lips along the edge of his bones, Zayn kisses his knuckles, then his fingers. Louis’ staring at him all the while, eyes fixed on Zayn’s mouth, lips parted slightly. Rubbing a thumb over the bruise on Louis’ cheek, Zayn grimaces. It looks harsher in the light, darker, more painful. He swallows his anger and, with his breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling over a thousand thoughts at once, Zayn touches his lips to Louis’ cheek, wishing he could take the pain away; wishing his own pain would go away.

Louis turns his face, mouth inches from Zayn’s. He asks, “Do you love him?”

A knot forms in Zayn’s throat, making it hard to speak. “No,” he says, fighting off the guilt.

He takes Louis’ hand in his, linking their fingers, and walks quietly out of the garage, through the dining room and kitchen. Zayn avoids his mom who’s sat at the bar, her checkbook laid out in front of her.

“Should I say hi?” Louis whispers when they reach the hall.

“Not yet.”

“Does she totally hate me?”

Zayn smirks, shakes his head.

Louis kicks off his shoes, taking his sweater that’s still laid out on Zayn’s bed, and rolls under the covers.

“I have to ask you something,” he says.

Zayn, tossing his keys on his desk, sits down next to him, elbows on his knees. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to sound completely heartless,” he pulls Zayn down on the bed, curling in on his side. “But what now? With us.”

“I thought we’d just go back to how things were.”

“We’re older now,” he says, color high in his cheeks. Zayn wonders if Louis’ nervous. “Things that were…well, _okay_ back then…”

“They aren’t okay now?”

“They are. But they mean different things.”

Zayn furrows his brow, tilts his head. “What is it?”

“Are we gonna be boyfriend and,” he shrugs, “boyfriend?”

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Zayn laughs softly. Pushing Louis onto his back and shifting himself between his legs, Zayn kisses him. He kisses him hard, hands on either side of Louis’ face, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. Louis’ lips feel the same way they had before: soft and gentle, timidly kissing back.

It’s almost as if the entire world shuts down, the room much too quiet; their breathing ragged. Zayn doesn’t stop kissing, doesn’t dare break the connection he’s desperately wanted for so long. Louis makes a soft sound, sending chills up Zayn’s sides. His hands are in Zayn’s hair, fingers playing with it, his heart beating fast enough that Zayn can feel it through his thin shirt. It’s everything he’s been waiting for.

When Louis breaks away, he laughs, though it sounds more like a sob.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, leg winding around Zayn’s waist.

“Of course it is.”

“And everything else?”

“I’ll work through it.”

“Do you think he’ll come around?”

“I want to say yes, but I really don’t know anymore.”

Louis rubs the tip of his nose to Zayn’s, says softly, “You’ll find a way to get him back. You always do.”

“How are you so okay with all of this?”

He smiles wide, laughing more so at himself than anything. “I know how it feels to lose you.”

Zayn’s chest tightens.

“It’s why people like you so much. You know? You’re special. It’s like you leave your mark on people, and when you’re gone…there’s nothing but a void.”

“I think that’s just how it is to lose someone in general.”

Louis shakes his head, clearing his throat. “No. Just you. It’ll be fine in the end, I’m sure of it.”

Zayn nods, not really understanding what Louis means, but believing him nonetheless. Laying his head to Louis’ chest, he listens to his heartbeat, to the stutter it makes when Zayn whispers, “I’ve missed you so much.”

He thinks about the time he met Harry, fifteen and careless with enough hair around his face to call it a mane, and how he looked at Zayn like he was the only person worth knowing. It makes his body ache, the thought of how Harry’s eyes shined brightly, his mouth curling into a smile. He was unharmed then, unbroken and whole. Zayn knows there’s a part of him that belongs to Harry, something that no one else will ever know, but with Louis’ hands touching him, his body warm and real beneath him, Zayn knows it isn’t the same. And it never will be. Because Louis’ the one he’s dreamed of his whole life, the person who’s branded in his mind; on his soul. It’s strange, really. He’s almost certain there’s a string tied around his heart that leads to Louis’, one that can’t ever break.

Looking at his bracelet, he remembers how he felt opening it on Christmas day all those years ago, when he saw the beads and hadn’t known what to make of them. He’s sure he had known then, just as he does now, that Louis isn’t just a friend, not just someone he can run to with problems. And really, that isn’t what friends are in the end. They’re the people that complete you, who make you better than what you could ever be, and with Louis’ heartbeat still sounding in his ears, Zayn thinks of how much of him Louis has created and shaped with his own hands. He isn’t himself without Louis, because Louis’ all he’s ever known. And maybe it _is_ unhealthy to others, to people who don’t know what it’s like to love and be loved back unconditionally, but that’s alright, Zayn thinks, because he’s finally himself again.

His voice is uneven, shaken, when he says, “Promise me you won’t leave again.”

Louis’ arms tighten around him. “I won’t.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

And Zayn believes him, he really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://zmalikd.tumblr.com/).


End file.
